BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

VILLA   RUBEIN,  and  Other  Stofte 

THE  ISLAND   PHARISEES 

THE  MAN   OF  PROPERTY 

THE  COUNTRY   HOUSE 

FRATERNITY 

THE  PATRICIAN 

THE  DARK   FLOWER 

THE  FKEKLANDB 

BEYOND 

FIVE  TALES 

SAINT'S  PROGRESS 
TATTERDEMALION 

A  COMMENTARY 

A  MOTLEY 

THE  INN   OF  TRANQUILLITY 

THE   LITTLE    MAN,    and  Other  Satirm 

A  SHEAF 

ANOTHER  SHEAF 

ADDRESSES  IN  AMERICA!    1919 


PLAYS:  FIRST  SERIES 

and  Separately 
THE   SILVER   BOX 
JOY 
STRIFE 

PLAYS:  SECOND  SERIES 


THE  ELDEST  SON 
THE   LITTLE   DREAM 
JUSTICE 

PLAYS:  THIRD  SERIES 

and  SeporaUlt 
THE  FUGITIVE 
THE   PIOEON 
THE  MOB 


HOODS,  SONGS,   AND   DOGGEBEIS 
MEMORIES.     Illustrated 


TATTERDEMALION 


TATTERDEMALION 


BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


"  Gentillesse  cometh  fro'  God  allone." 

— Chaucer 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  1918,  1920,  BT 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Copyright,  1915.  1916,  by  The  RMgway  Company 

Copyright,  1919,  by  The  New  Republic  Publishing  Co.,  Inc. 

Copyright.  1914,  1916,  1919,  by  The  Atlantic  Monthly  Co. 


TO 
ELIZABETH  LUCAS 


2234691 


CONTENTS 

PART  I.— OF  WAR-TIME 

PAGE 

I.    THE  GREY  ANGEL 3 

II.    DEFEAT 27 

III.  FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM 51 

IV.  THE  BRIGHT  SIDE 75 

V.    "CAFARD" 105 

VI.    RECORDED 117 

VII.    THE  RECRUIT 125 

VIII.     THE  PEACE  MEETING 137 

IX.    "THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"   ...  147 

X.    IN  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH 169 

XI.    THE  MOTHER  STONE 173 

XII.      POIROT  AND   BlDAN 179 

XIII.  THE  MUFFLED  SHIP 187 

XIV.  HERITAGE 191 

XV.    'A  GREEN  HILL  FAR  AWAY'  199 


viii  CONTENTS 

PART  II.— OF  PEACE-TIME 

PAGE 

I.    SPINDLEBERRIES 209 

II.    EXPECTATIONS 227 

III.  MANNA 239 

IV.  A  STRANGE  THING  .     .     .     .  -  .     .     .     .  255 
V.    Two  LOOKS 271 

VI.    FAIRYLAND 279 

VII.    THE  NIGHTMARE  CHILD 283 

VIII.-    BUTTERCUP-NlGHT  .             .   -.              .»   .  295 


PART  I 
OF  WAR-TIME 


I 

THE  GREY  ANGEL 

Her  predilection  for  things  French  came  from 
childish  recollections  of  school-days  in  Paris,  and 
a  hasty  removal  thence  by  her  father  during  the 
revolution  of  '48,  of  later  travels  as  a  little 
maiden,  by  diligence,  to  Pau  and  the  then  undis- 
covered Pyrenees,  to  a  Montpellier  and  a  Nice  as 
yet  unspoiled.  Unto  her  seventy-eighth  year, 
her  French  accent  had  remained  unruffled,  her 
soul  in  love  with  French  gloves  and  dresses;  and 
her  face  had  the  pale,  unwrinkled,  slightly  aqui- 
line perfection  of  the  ' French  marquise'  type — 
it  may,  perhaps,  be  doubted  whether  any  French 
marquise  ever  looked  the  part  so  perfectly. 

How  it  came  about  that  she  had  settled  down 
in  a  southern  French  town,  in  the  summer  of 
1914,  only  her  roving  spirit  knew.  She  had  been 
a  widow  ten  years,  which  she  had  passed  in  the 
quest  of  perfection;  all  her  life  she  had  been 
haunted  by  that  instinct,  half-smothered  in  min- 
istering to  her  husband,  children,  and  establish- 
ments in  London  and  the  country.  Now,  in 
loneliness,  the  intrinsic  independence  of  her  soul 

3 


4  TATTERDEMALION 

i- 

was  able  to  assert  itself,  and  from  hotel  to  hotel 
she  had  wandered  in  England,  Wales,  Switzer- 
land, France,  till  now  she  had  found  what  seem- 
ingly arrested  her.  Was  it  the  age  of  that  old- 
est-of  Western  cities,  that  little  mother  of  West- 
ern civilisation,  which  captured  her  fancy?  Or 
did  a  curious  perversity  turn  her  from  more  ob- 
vious abodes,  or  was  she  kept  there  by  the  charm 
of  a  certain  church  which  she  would  enter  every 
day  to  steep  herself  in  mellow  darkness,  the  scent 
of  incense,  the  drone  of  incantations,  and  quiet 
communion  with  a  God  higher  indeed  than  she 
had  been  brought  up  to,  high-church  though  she 
had  always  been?  She  had  a  pretty  little  apart- 
ment, where  for  very  little — the  bulk  of  her  small 
wealth  was  habitually  at  the  service  of  others — 
she  could  manage  with  one  maid  and  no  "fuss." 
She  had  some  "nice"  French  friends  there,  too. 
But  more  probably  it  was  simply  the  war  which 
kept  her  there,  waiting,  like  so  many  other  peo- 
ple, for  it  to  be  over  before  it  seemed  worth  while 
to  move  and  re-establish  herself.  The  immensity 
and  wickedness  of  this  strange  event  held  her,  as 
it  were,  suspended,  body  and  spirit,  high  up  on 
the  hill  which  had  seen  the  ancient  peoples,  the 
Romans,  Gauls,  Saracens,  and  all,  and  still  looked 
out  towards  the  flat  Camargue.  Here  in  her 
three  rooms,  with  a  little  kitchen,  the  maid 


THE  GREY  ANGEL  5 

Augustine,  a  parrot,  and  the  Paris  Daily  Mail, 
she  dwelt  as  it  were  marooned  by  a  world  event 
which  seemed  to  'stun  her.  Not  that  she  wor- 
ried, exactly.  The  notion  of  defeat  or  of  real 
danger  to  her  country  and  to  France  never  en- 
tered her  head.  She  only  grieved  quietly  over 
the  dreadful  things  that  were  being  done,  and 
every  now  and  then  would  glow  with  admiration 
at  the  beautiful  way  the  King  and  Queen  were 
behaving.  It  was  no  good  to  "fuss,"  and  one 
must  make  the  best  of  things,  just  as  the  "dear 
little  Queen"  was  doing;  for  each  Queen  in  turn, 
and  she  had  seen  three  reign  in  her  time,  was 
always  that  to  her.  Her  ancestors  had  been  up- 
rooted from  their  lands,  their  house  burned,  and 
her  pedigree  diverted,  in  the  Stuart  wars — a 
reverence  for  royalty  was  fastened  in  her  blood. 

Quite  early  in  the  business  she  had  begun  to 
knit,  moving  her  slim  fingers  not  too  fast,  gazing 
at  the  grey  wool  through  glasses,  specially  rim- 
less and  invisible,  perched  on  the  bridge  of  her 
firm,  well-shaped  nose,  and  now  and  then  speak- 
ing to  her  parrot.  The  bird  could  say,  "Scratch 
a  poll,  Poll,"  already,  and  "Hullo!"  those  keys 
to  the  English  language.  The  maid  Augustine, 
having  completed  some  small  duty,  would  often 
come  and  stand,  her  head  on  one  side,  gazing 
down  with  a  sort  of  inquiring  compassion  in  her 


6  TATTERDEMALION 

wise,  young,  clear-brown  eyes.  It  seemed  to  her 
who  was  straight  and  sturdy  as  a  young  tree 
both  wonderful  and  sad  that  Madame  should  be 
seventy-seven,  and  so  frail — Madame  who  had  no 
lines  in  her  face  and  such  beautiful  grey  hair; 
who  had  so  strong  a  will-power,  too,  and  knitted 
such  soft  comforters  "pour  nos  braves  chers  poilus." 
And  suddenly  she  would  say:  "Madame  riest  pas 
fatiguee?"  And  Madame  would  answer:  "No. 
Speak  English,  Augustine — Polly  will  pick  up 
your  French!  Come  here!"  And,  reaching  up 
a  pale  hand,  she  would  set  straight  a  stray  fluff  of 
the  girl's  dark-brown  hair  or  improve  the  set  of 
her  fichu. 

Those  two  got  on  extremely  well,  for  though 
madame  was — oh!  but  very  particular,  she  was 
always  "tres  gentitte  et  toujours  grande  dame.11 
And  that  love  of  form  so  deep  in  the  French  soul 
promoted  the  girl's  admiration  for  one  whom  she 
could  see  would  in  no  circumstances  lose  her 
dignity.  Besides,  Madame  was  full  of  dainty 
household  devices,  and  could  not  bear  waste; 
and  these,  though  exacting,  were  qualities  which 
appealed  to  Augustine.  With  her  French  passion 
for  "the  family"  she  used  to  wonder  how  in  days 
like  these  Madame  could  endure  to  be  far  away 
from  her  son  and  daughter  and  the  grandchildren, 
whose  photographs  hung  on  the  walls;  and  thq 


THE  GREY  ANGEL  7 

long  letters  her  mistress  was  always  writing  in  a 
beautiful,  fine  hand,  beginning,  "My  darling 
Sybil,"  "My  darling  Reggie,"  and  ending  always 
"Your  devoted  mother,"  seemed  to  a  warm  and 
simple  heart  but  meagre  substitutes  for  flesh-and- 
blood  realities.  But  as  Madame  would  inform 
her — they  were  too  busy  doing  things  for  the  dear 
soldiers,  and  working  for  the  war;  they  could  not 
come  to  her — that  would  never  do.  And  to'  go 
to  them  would  give  so  much  trouble,  when  the 
railways  were  so  wanted  for  the  troops;  and  she 
had  their  lovely  letters,  which  she  kept — as  Au- 
gustine observed — every  one  in  a  lavender-scented 
sachet,  and  frequently  took  out  to  read.  An- 
other point  of  sympathy  between  those  two  was 
their  passion  for  military  music  and  seeing  sol- 
diers pass.  Augustine's  brother  and  father  were 
at  the  front,  and  Madame' s  dead  brother  had  been 
a  soldier  in  the  Crimean  war — "long  before  you 
were  born,  Augustine,  when  the  French  and  Eng- 
lish fought  the  Russians;  I  was  in  France  then, 
too,  a  little  girl,  and  we  lived  at  Nice;  it  was  so 
lovely,  you  can't  think — the  flowers !  And  my 
poor  brother  was  so  cold  in  the  siege  of  Sebas- 
topol."  Somehow,  that  time  and  that  war  were 
more  real  to  her  than  this. 

In  December,  when  the  hospitals  were  already 
full,  her  French  friends  first  took  her  to  the  one 


8  TATTERDEMALION 

which  they  attended.  She  went  in,  her  face 
very  calm,  with  that  curious  inward  composure 
which  never  deserted  it,  carrying  in  front  of  her 
with  both  hands  a  black  silk  bag,  wherein  she  had 
concealed  an  astonishing  collection  of  treasures 
for  the  poor  men !  A  bottle  of  acidulated  drops, 
packets  of  cigarettes,  two  of  her  own  mufflers,  a 
pocket  set  of  drafts,  some  English  riddles  trans- 
lated by  herself  into  French  (very  curious),  some 
ancient  copies  of  an  illustrated  paper,  boxes  of 
chocolate,  a  ball  of  string  to  make  "cat's  cradles" 
(such  an  amusing  game),  her  own  packs  of  Pa- 
tience cards,  some  photograph  frames,  post-cards 
of  Aries,  and — most  singular — &  kettle-holder. 
At  the  head  of  each  bed  she  would  sit  down  and 
rummage  in  the  bag,  speaking  in  her  slow  but 
quite  good  French,  to  explain  the  use  of  the  acid- 
ulated drops,  or  to  give  a  lesson  in  cat's  cradles. 
And  the  poilus  would  listen  with  their  polite, 
ironic  patience,  and  be  left  smiling,  and  curiously 
fascinated,  as  if  they  had  been  visited  by  a 
creature  from  another  world.  She  would  move 
on  to  other  beds,  quite  unconscious  of  the  effect 
she  had  produced  on  them  and  of  their  remarks: 
"Cette  vieille  dame,  comme  elle  est  bonne!"  or 
"Espece  d'ange  aux  cheveux  gris."  "Uange  an- 
glaise  aux  cheveux  gris"  became  in  fact  her  name 
within  those  walls.  And  the  habit  of  filling  that 


THE  GREY  ANGEL  9 

black  silk  bag  and  going  there  to  distribute  its 
contents  soon  grew  to  be  with  her  a  ruling  pas- 
sion which  neither  weather  nor  her  own  aches 
and  pains,  not  inconsiderable,  must  interfere  with. 
The  things  she  brought  became  more  marvellous 
every  week.  But,  however  much  she  carried 
coals  to  Newcastle,  or  tobacco  pouches  to  those 
who  did  not  smoke,  or  homoeopathic  globules  to 
such  as  crunched  up  the  whole  bottleful  for 
the  sake  of  the  sugar,  as  soon  as  her  back  was 
turned,  no  one  ever  smiled  now  with  anything 
but  real  pleasure  at  sight  of  her  calm  and  truly 
sweet  smile,  and  the  scent  of  soap  on  her  pale 
hands.  "Cher  fils,  je  croyais  que  ceci  vous  don- 
nerait  un  pen  de  plaisir.  Voyez-vous  comme  c'est 
commode,  n'est  ce  pas  ?"  Each  newcomer  to  the 
wards  was  warned  by  his  comrades  that  the 
English  angel  with  the  grey  hair  was  to  be  taken 
without  a  smile,  exactly  as  if  she  were  his  grand- 
mother. 

In  the  walk  to  the  hospital  Augustine  would 
accompany  her,  carrying  the  bag  and  perhaps  a 
large  peasant's  umbrella  to  cover  them  both,  for 
the  winter  was  hard  and  snowy,  and  carriages 
cost  money,  which  must  now  be  kept  entirely 
for  the  almost  daily  replenishment  of  the  bag  and 
other  calls  of  war.  The  girl,  to  her  chagrin,  was 
always  left  in  a  safe  place,  for  it  would  never  do 


10  TATTERDEMALION 

to  take  her  in  and  put  fancies  into  her  head,  and 
perhaps  excite  the  dear  soldiers  with  a  view  of 
anything  so  taking.  And  when  the  visit  was 
over  they  would  set  forth  home,  walking  very 
slowly  in  the  high,  narrow  streets,  Augustine 
pouting  a  little  and  shooting  swift  glances  at  any- 
thing in  uniform,  and  Madame  making  firm  her 
lips  against  a  fatigue  which  sometimes  almost 
overcame  her  before  she  could  get  home  and  up 
the  stairs.  And  the  parrot  would  greet  them  in- 
discreetly with  new  phrases — "Keep  smiling!'* 
and  "Kiss  Augustine!"  which  he  sometimes 
varied  with  "Kiss  a  poll,  Poll!"  or  "Scratch 
Augustine!"  to  Madame' s  regret.  Tea  would 
revive  her  somewhat,  and  then  she  would  knit, 
for  as  time  went  on  and  the  war  seemed  to  get 
farther  and  farther  from  that  end  which,  in  com- 
mon with  so  many,  she  had  expected  before  now, 
it  seemed  dreadful  not  to  be  always  doing  some- 
thing to  help  the  poor  dear  soldiers;  and  for  din- 
ner, to  Augustine's  horror,  she  now  had  nothing 
but  a  little  soup,  or  an  egg  beaten  up  with  milk 
and  brandy.  It  saved  such  a  lot  of  time  and  ex- 
pense— she  was  sure  people  ate  too  much;  and 
afterwards  she  would  read  the  Daily  Mail,  often 
putting  it  down  to  sigh,  and  press  her  lips  to- 
gether, and  think,  "One  must  look  on  the  bright 
side  of  things,"  and  wonder  a  little  where  it  was. 


THE  GREY  ANGEL  11 

And  Augustine,  finishing  her  work  in  the  tiny 
kitchen,  would  sigh  too,  and  think  of  red  trousers 
and  peaked  caps,  not  yet  out  of  date  in  that 
Southern  region,  and  of  her  own  heart  saying 
"Kiss  Augustine!"  and  she  would  peer  out  be- 
tween the  shutters  at  the  stars  sparkling  over  the 
Camargue,  or  look  down  where  the  ground  fell 
away  beyond  an  old,  old  wall,  and  nobody  walked 
in  the  winter  night,  and  muse  on  her  nineteenth 
birthday  coming,  and  sigh  with  the  thought  that 
she  would  be  old  before  any  one  had  loved  her; 
and  of  how  Madame  was  looking  "  tres  fatiguee." 

Indeed,  Madame  was  not  merely  looking  "ires 
fatiguee"  in  these  days.  The  world's  vitality 
and  her  own  were  at  sad  January  ebb.  But  to 
think  of  oneself  was  quite  impossible,  of  course; 
it  would  be  all  right  presently,  and  one  must  not 
fuss,  or  mention  in  one's  letters  to  the  dear  chil- 
dren that  one  felt  at  all  poorly.  As  for  a  doctor 
— that  would  be  sinful  waste,  and  besides,  what 
use  were  they  except  to  tell  you  what  you  knew  ? 
So  she  was  terribly  vexed  when  Augustine  found 
her  in  a  faint  one  morning,  and  she  found  Augus- 
tine in  tears,  with  her  hair  all  over  her  face.  She 
rated  the  girl  soundly,  but  feebly,  for  making 
such  a  fuss  over  "a  little  thing  like  that,"  and 
with  extremely  trembling  fingers  pushed  the  brown 
hair  back  and  told  her  to  wash  her  face,  while 


12  TATTERDEMALION 

the  parrot  said  reflectively:  "Scratch  a  poll — 
Hullo !"  The  girl  who  had  seen  her  own  grand- 
mother die  not  long  before,  and  remembered  how 
"fatigiLee"  she  had  been  during  her  last  days, 
was  really  frightened.  Coming  back  after  she 
had  washed  her  face,  she  found  her  mistress  writ- 
ing on  a  number  of  little  envelopes  the  same 
words:  "En  bonne  Amitie"  She  looked  up  at  the 
girl  standing  so  ominously  idle,  and  said: 

"Take  this  hundred-franc  note,  Augustine,  and 
go  and  get  it  changed  into  single  francs — the  iron- 
monger will  do  it  if  you  say  it's  for  me.  I  am 
going  to  take  a  rest.  I  sha'n't  buy  anything  for 
the  bag  for  a  whole  week.  I  shall  just  take 
francs  instead." 

"Oh,  Madame!  You  must  not  go  out:  vous 
etes  trop  fatiguee." 

"Nonsense!  How  do  you  suppose  our  dear 
little  Queen  in  England  would  get  on  with  all  she 
has  to  do,  if  she  were  to  give  in  like  that?  We 
must  none  of  us  give  up  in  these  days.  Help 
me  to  put  on  my  things;  I  am  going  to  church, 
and  then  I  shall  take  a  long  rest  before  we  go  to 
the  hospital." 

"Oh,  Madame!  Must  you  go  to  church?  It 
is  not  your  kind  of  church.  You  do  not  pray 
there,  do  you?" 

"Of  course  I  pray  there.    I  am  very  fond  of 


THE  GREY  ANGEL  13 

the  dear  old  church.  God  is  in  every  church, 
Augustine;  you  ought  to  know  that  at  your  age." 

"But  Madame  has  her  own  religion?" 

"Now,  don't  be  silly.  What  does  that  matter? 
Help  me  into  my  cloth  coat — not  the  fur — it's 
too  heavy — and  then  go  and  get  that  money 
changed." 

"But  Madame  should  see  a  doctor.  If  Madame 
faints  again  I  shall  die  with  fright.  Madame  has 
no  colour — but  no  colour  at  all;  it  must  be  that 
there  is  something  wrong." 

Madame  rose,  and  taking  the  girl's  ear  be- 
tween thumb  and  finger  pinched  it  gently. 

"You  are  a  very  silly  girl.  What  would  our 
poor  soldiers  do  if  all  the  nurses  were  like  you?" 

Reaching  the  church  she  sat  down  gladly,  turn- 
ing her  face  up  towards  her  favourite  picture,  a 
Virgin  standing  with  her  Baby  in  her  arms.  It 
was  only  faintly  coloured  now;  but  there  were 
those  who  said  that  an  Arle*sienne  must  have  sat 
for  it.  Why  it  pleased  her  so  she  never  quite 
knew,  unless  it  were  by  its  cool,  unrestored  devo- 
tion, by  the  faint  smiling  in  the  eyes.  Religion 
with  her  was  a  strange  yet  very  real  thing.  Con- 
scious that  she  was  not  clever,  she  never  even 
began  to  try  and  understand  what  she  believed. 
Probably  she  believed  nothing  more  than  that  if 
she  tried  to  be  good  she  would  go  to  God — what- 


14  TATTERDEMALION 

ever  and  wherever  God  might  be — some  day  when 
she  was  too  tired  to  live  any  more;  and  rarely  in- 
deed did  she  forget  to  try  to  be  good.  As  she  sat 
there  she  thought,  or  perhaps  prayed/  whichever 
it  should  be  called:  "Let  me  forget  that  I  have 
a  body,  and  remember  all  the  poor  soldiers  who 
have  them." 

It  struck  cold  that  morning  in  the  church — the 
wind  was  bitter  from  the  northeast;  some  poor 
women  in  black  were  kneeling,  and  four  candles 
burned  in  the  gloom  of  a  side  aisle — thin,  steady 
little  spires  of  gold.  There  was  no  sound  at  all. 
A  smile  came  on  her  lips.  She  was  forgetting 
that  she  had  a  body,  and  remembering  all  those 
young  faces  in  the  wards,  the  faces  too  of  her  own 
children  far  away,  the  faces  of  all  she  loved. 
They  were  real  and  she  was  not — she  was  nothing 
but  the  devotion  she  felt  for  them;  yes,  for  all 
the  poor  souls  on  land  and  sea,  fighting  and  work- 
ing and  dying.  Her  lips  moved;  she  was  saying 
below  her  breath,  "I  love  them  all";  then,  feel- 
ing a  shiver  run  down  her  spine,  she  compressed 
those  lips  and  closed  her  eyes,  letting  her  mind 
alone  murmur  her  chosen  prayer:  "0  God,  who 
makes  the  birds  sing  and  the  stars  shine,  and 
gives  us  little  children,  strengthen  my  heart  so 
that  I  may  forget  my  own  aches*  and  wants  and 
think  of  those  of  other  people." 


THE  GREY  ANGEL  15 

On  reaching  home  again  she  took  gelseminum, 
her  favourite  remedy  against  that  shivering, 
which,  however  hard  she  tried  to  forget  her  own 
body,  would  keep  coming;  then,  covering  herself 
with  her  fur  coat,  she  lay  down,  closing  her  eyes. 
She  was  seemingly  asleep,  so  that  Augustine, 
returning  with  the  hundred  single  francs,  placed 
them  noiselessly  beside  the  little  pile  of  envelopes, 
and  after  looking  at  the  white,  motionless  face  of 
her  mistress  and  shaking  her  own  bonny  head, 
withdrew.  When  she  had  gone,  two  tears  came 
out  of  those  closed  eyes  and  clung  on  the  pale 
cheeks  below.  The  seeming  sleeper  was  thinking 
of  her  children,  away  over  there  in  England,  her 
children  and  their  children.  Almost  unbearably 
she  was  longing  for  a  sight  of  them,  not  seen  for 
so  long  now,  recalling  each  face,  each  voice, 
each  different  way  they  had  of  saying,  "Mother 
darling,"  or  "Granny,  look  what  I've  got!"  and 
thinking  that  if  only  the  war  would  end  how  she 
would  pack  at  once  and  go  to  them,  that  is,  if 
they  would  not  come  to  her  for  a  nice  long  holi- 
day in  this  beautiful  place.  She  thought  of 
spring,  too,  and  how  lovely  it  would  be  to  see  the 
trees  come  out  again,  and  almond  blossom  against 
a  blue  sky.  The  war  seemed  so  long,  and  winter 
too.  But  she  must  not  complain;  others  had 
much  greater  sorrows  than  she — the  poor  widowed 


16  TATTERDEMALION 

women  kneeling  in  the  church;  the  poor  boys 
freezing  in  the  trenches.  God  in  his  great  mercy 
could  not  allow  it  to  last  much  longer.  It  would 
not  be  like  Him !  Though  she  felt  that  it  would 
be  impossible  to  eat,  she  meant  to  force  herself 
to  make  a  good  lunch  so  as  to  be  able  to  go  down 
as  usual,  and  give  her  little  presents.  They 
would  miss  them  so  if  she  didn't.  Her  eyes,  open- 
ing, rested  almost  gloatingly  on  the  piles  of  francs 
and  envelopes.  And  she  began  to  think  how  she 
could  reduce  still  further  her  personal  expendi- 
ture. It  was  so  dreadful  to  spend  anything  on 
oneself — an  old  woman  like  her.  Doctor,  indeed ! 
If  Augustine  fussed  any  more  she  would  send  her 
away  and  do  for  herself !  And  the  parrot,  leav- 
ing his  cage,  which  he  could  always  do,  perched 
just  behind  her  and  said:  "Hullo!  Kiss  me, 
too!" 

That  afternoon  in  the  wards  every  one  noticed 
what  a  beautiful  colour  she  had.  "L'ange  an- 
glaise  aux  cheveux  gris"  had  never  been  more 
popular.  One  poilu,  holding  up  his  envelope,  re- 
marked to  his  neighbour:  "Elle  verse  des  gouttes 
d'  del,  notr>  'tite  gran'me."  To  them,  grateful 
even  for  those  mysterious  joys  "cat's  cradles," 
francs  were  the  true  drops  from  heaven. 

She  had  not  meant  to  give  them  all  to-day,  but 
it  seemed  dreadful,  when  she  saw  how  pleased 


THE  GREY  ANGEL  17 

they  were,  to  leave  any  out,  and  so  the  whole 
ninety-seven  had  their  franc  each.  The  three 
over  would  buy  Augustine  a  little  brooch  to  make 
up  to  the  silly  child  for  her  fright  in  the  morning. 
The  buying  of  this  brooch  took  a  long  time  at 
the  jeweller's  in  the  rue  des  Remains,  and  she  had 
only  just  fixed  on  an  amethyst  before  feeling 
deadly  ill  with  a  dreadful  pain  through  her  lungs. 
She  went  out  with  her  tiny  package  quickly,  not 
wanting  any  fuss,  and  began  to  mount  towards 
home.  There  were  only  three  hundred  yards 
to  go,  and  with  each  step  she  said  to  herself: 
"Nonsense!  What  would  the  Queen  think  of 
you !  Remember  the  poor  soldiers  with  only  one 
leg!  You  have  got  both  your  legs!  And  the 
poor  men  who  walk  from  the  battlefield  with  bul- 
lets through  the  lungs.  What  is  your  pain  to 
theirs !  Nonsense !"  But  the  pain,  like  none  she 
had  ever  felt — a  pain  which  seemed  to  have  sharp 
double  edges  like  a  knife — kept  passing  through 
and  through  her,  till  her  legs  had  no  strength  at 
all,  and  seemed  to  move  simply  because  her  will 
said:  "If  you  don't,  I'll  leave  you  behind.  So 
there!"  She  felt  as  if  perspiration  were  flowing 
down,  yet  her  face  was  as  dry  as  a  dead  leaf 
when  she  put  up  her  hand  to  it.  Her  brain 
stammered;  seemed  to  fly  loose;  came  to  sudden 
standstills.  Her  eyes  searched  painfully  each 


18  TATTERDEMALION 

grey-shuttered  window  for  her  own  house,  though 
she  knew  quite  well  that  she  had  not  reached  it 
yet.  From  sheer  pain  she  stood  still,  a  wry  little 
smile  on  her  lips,  thinking  how  poor  Polly  would 
say:  "Keep  smiling!"  Then  she  moved  on, 
holding  out  her  hand,  whether  because  she  thought 
God  would  put  his  into  it  or  only  to  pull  on  some 
imaginary  rope  to  help  her.  So,  foot  by  foot, 
she  crept  till  she  reached  her  door.  A  most 
peculiar  floating  sensation  had  come  over  her. 
The  pain  ceased,  and  as  if  she  had  passed  through 
no  doors,  mounted  no  stairs — she  was  up  in  her 
room,  lying  on  her  sofa,  with  strange  images 
about  her,  painfully  conscious  that  she  was  not 
in  proper  control  of  her  thoughts,  and  that  Au- 
gustine must  be  thinking  her  ridiculous.  Making 
a  great  effort,  she  said: 

"I  forbid  you  to  send  for  a  doctor,  Augustine. 
I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two,  if  I  eat  plenty 
•  of  francs.  And  you  must  put  on  this  little  brooch 
— I  bought  it  for  you  from  an  angel  in  the  street. 
Put  my  fur  coat  on  Polly — he's  shivering;  dry 
your  mouth,  there's  a  good  girl.  Tell  my  son  he 
mustn't  think  of  leaving  the  poor  War  Office;  I 
shall  come  and  see  him  after  the  war.  It  will  be 
over  to-morrow,  and  then  we  will  all  go  and  have 
tea  together  in  a  wood.  Granny  will  come  to 
you,  my  darlings." 


THE  GREY  ANGEL  19 

And  when  the  terrified  girl  had  rushed  out  she 
thought:  "There,  now  she's  gone  to  get  God; 
and  I  mustn't  disturb  Him  with  all  He  has  to 
see  to.  I  shall  get  up  and  do  for  myself."  When 
they  came  back  with  the  doctor  they  found  her 
half-dressed,  trying  to  feed  a  perch  in  the  empty 
cage  with  a  spoon,  and  saying:  "Kiss  Granny, 
Polly.  God  is  coming;  kiss  Granny!"  while  the 
parrot  sat  away  over  on  the  mantelpiece,  with 
his  head  on  one  side,  deeply  interested. 

When  she  had  been  properly  undressed  and 
made  to  lie  down  on  the  sofa,  for  she  insisted  so 
that  she  would  not  go  to  bed  that  they  dared  not 
oppose  her,  the  doctor  made  his  diagnosis.  It  was 
double  pneumonia,  of  that  sudden  sort  which  de- 
clares for  life  or  death  in  forty-eight  hours.  At 
her  age  a  desperate  case.  Her  children  must  be 
wired  to  at  once.  She  had  sunk  back,  seemingly 
unconscious;  and  Augustine,  approaching  the 
drawer  where  she  knew  the  letters  were  kept, 
slipped  out  the  lavender  sachet  and  gave  it  to 
the  doctor.  When  he  had  left  the  room  to  ex- 
tract the  addresses  and  send  those  telegrams,  the 
girl  sat  down  by  the  foot  of  the  couch,  leaning 
her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  face  on  her 
hands,  staring  at  that  motionless  form,  while  the 
tears  streamed  down  her  broad  cheeks.  For 
many  minutes  neither  of  them  stirred,  and  the 


20  TATTERDEMALION 

only  sound  was  the  restless  stropping  of  the  par- 
rot's beak  against  a  wire  of  his  cage.  Then  her 
mistress's  lips  moved,  and  the  girl  bent  forward. 
A  whispering  came  forth,  caught  and  suspended 
by  breathless  pausing: 

"Mind,  Augustine — no  one  is  to  tell  my  chil- 
dren— I  can't  have  them  disturbed — over  a  little 
thing — like  this — and  in  my  purse  you'll  find 
another — hundred-franc  note.  I  shall  want  some 
more  francs  for  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Be  a 
good  girl  and  don't  fuss,  and  kiss  poor  Polly,  and 
mind — I  won't  have  a  doctor — taking  him  away 
from  his  work.  Give  me  my  gelseminum  and  my 
prayer-book.  And  go  to  bed  just  as  usual — we 
must  all — keep  smiling — like  the  dear  soldiers — " 
The  whispering  ceased,  then  began  again  at  once 
in  rapid  delirious  incoherence.  And  the  girl  sat 
trembling,  covering  now  her  ears  from  those  un- 
canny sounds,  now  her  eyes  from  the  flush  and 
the  twitching  of  that  face,  usually  so  pale  and 
still.  She  could  not  follow — with  her  little  Eng- 
lish— the  swerving,  intricate  flights  of  that  old 
spirit  mazed  by  fever — the  memories  released,  the 
longings  disclosed,  the  half-uttered  prayers,  the 
curious  little  half -conscious  efforts  to  regain  form 
and  dignity.  She  could  only  pray  to  the  Virgin. 
When  relieved  by  the  daughter  of  Madame's 
French  friend,  who  spoke  good  English,  she  mur- 


THE  GREY  ANGEL  21 

mured  desperately:  "Oh!  mademoiselle,  madame 
est  tres  fatiguee — la  pauvre  tete—faut-il  enlever  les 
cheveux  ?  Elle  fait  qa  toujours  pour  elle-meme" 
For,  to  the  girl,  with  her  reverence  for  the  fastidi- 
ous dignity  which  never  left  her  mistress,  it 
seemed  sacrilege  to  divest  her  of  her  crown  of 
fine  grey  hair.  Yet,  when  it  was  done  and  the 
old  face  crowned  only  by  the  thin  white  hair  of 
nature,  that  dignity  was  still  there  surmounting 
the  wandering  talk  and  the  moaning  from  her 
parched  lips,  which  every  now  and  then  smiled 
and  pouted  in  a  kiss,  as  if  remembering  the  max- 
ims of  the  parrot.  So  the  night  passed,  with  all 
that  could  be  done  for  her,  whose  most  collected 
phrase,  frequently  uttered  in  the  doctor's  face, 
was:  "Mind,  Augustine,  I  won't  have  a  doctor — 
I  can  manage  for  myself  quite  well."  Once  for  a 
few  minutes  her  spirit  seemed  to  recover  its  co- 
herence, and  she  was  heard  to  whisper:  "God 
has  given  me  this  so  that  I  may  know  what  the 
poor  soldiers  suffer.  Oh!  they've  forgotten  to 
cover  Polly's  cage."  But  high  fever  soon  passes 
from  the  very  old;  and  early  morning  brought  a 
deathlike  exhaustion,  with  utter  silence,  save  for 
the  licking  of  the  flames  at  the  olive-wood  logs, 
and  the  sound  as  they  slipped  or  settled  down, 
calcined.  The  firelight  crept  fantastically  about 
.the  walls  covered  with  tapestry  of  French-grey 


22  TATTERDEMALION 

silk,  crept  round  the  screen-head  of  the  couch, 
and  betrayed  the  ivory  pallor  of  that  mask-like 
face,  which  covered  now  such  tenuous  threads  of 
life.  Augustine,  who  had  come  on  guard  when 
the  fever  died  away,  sat  in  the  armchair  before 
those  flames,  trying  hard  to  watch,  but  dropping 
off  into  the  healthy  sleep  of  youth.  And  out  in 
the  clear,  hard  shivering  Southern  cold,  the  old 
clocks  chimed  the  hours  into  the  winter  dark, 
where,  remote  from  man's  restless  spirit,  the  old 
town  brooded  above  plain  and  river  under  the 
morning  stars.  And  the  girl  dreamed — dreamed 
of  a  sweetheart  under  the  acacias  by  her  home, 
of  his  pinning  their  white  flowers  into  her  hair, 
till  she  woke  with  a  little  laugh.  Light  was 
already  coming  through  the  shutter  chinks,  the 
fire  was  but  red  embers  and  white  ash.  She 
gathered  it  stealthily  together,  put  on  fresh  logs, 
and  stole  over  to  the  couch.  Oh !  how  white ! 
how  still!  Was  her  mistress  dead?  The  icy 
clutch  of  that  thought  jerked  her  hands  up  to  her 
full  breast,  and  a  cry  mounted  in  her  throat. 
The  eyes  opened.  The  white  lips  parted,  as  if 
to  smile;  a  voice  whispered:  "Now,  don't  be 
silly!"  The  girl's  cry  changed  into  a  little  sob, 
and  bending  down  she  put  her  lips  to  the  ringed 
hand  that  lay  outside  the  quilt.  The  hand  moved 
faintly  as  if  responding,  the  voice  whispered: 


THE  GREY  ANGEL  23 

"The  emerald  ring  is  for  you,  Augustine.  Is  it 
morning?  Uncover  Polly's  cage,  and  open  his 
door." 

Madame  spoke  no  more  that  morning.  A 
telegram  had  come.  Her  son  and  daughter 
would  arrive  next  morning  early.  They  waited 
for  a  moment  of  consciousness  to  tell  her;  but  the 
day  went  by,  and  in  spite  of  oxygen  and  brandy 
it  did  not  come.  She  was  sinking  fast;  her  only 
movements  were  a  tiny  compression  now  and  then 
of  the  lips,  a  half-opening  of  the  eyes,  and  once  a 
smile  when  the  parrot  spoke.  The  rally  came  at 
eight  o'clock.  Mademoiselle  was  sitting  by  the 
couch  when  the  voice  came  fairly  strong:  "Give 
my  love  to  my  dear  soldiers,  and  take  them  their 
francs  out  of  my  purse,  please.  Augustine,  take 
care  of  Polly.  I  want  to  see  if  the  emerald  ring 
fits  you.  Take  it  off,  please";  and,  when  it  had 
been  put  on  the  little  finger  of  the  sobbing  girl: 
"There,  you  see,  it  does.  That's  very  nice. 
Your  sweetheart  will  like  that  when  you  have 
one.  What  do  you  say,  Mademoiselle  ?  My  son 
and  daughter  coming?  All  that  way?"  The 
lips  smiled  a  moment,  and  then  tears  forced  their 
way  into  her  eyes.  "My  darlings!  How  good 
of  them !  Oh !  what  a  cold  journey  they'll  have ! 
Get  my  room  ready,  Augustine,  with  a  good  fire ! 
What  are  you  crying  for?  Remember  what 


24  TATTERDEMALION 

Polly  says:  'Keep  smiling!'  Think  how  bad  it 
is  for  the  poor  soldiers  if  we  women  go  crying! 
The  Queen  never  cries,  and  she  has  ever  so  much 
to  make  her!" 

No  one  could  tell  whether  she  knew  that  she 
was  dying,  except  perhaps  for  those  words,  "Take 
care  of  Polly,"  and  the  gift  of  the  ring. 

She  did  not  even  seem  anxious  as  to  whether 
she  would  live  to  see  her  children.  Her  smile 
moved  Mademoiselle  to  whisper  to  Augustine: 
"Ette  a  la  sourire  divine" 

"Ah  I  mad€moiselle}  comme  die  est  brave,  la 
pauvre  dame!  C'est  qu'elle  pense  ton  jours  aux 
autres."  And  the  girl's  tears  dropped  on  the 
emerald  ring. 

Night  fell — the  long  night;  would  she  wake 
again?  Both  watched  with  her,  ready  at  the 
faintest  movement  to  administer  oxygen  and 
brandy.  She  was  still  breathing,  but  very  faintly, 
when  at  six  o'clock  they  heard  the  express  come 
in,  and  presently  the  carriage  stop  before  the 
house.  Mademoiselle  stole  down  to  let  them  in. 

Still  in  their  travelling  coats  her  son  and  daugh- 
ter knelt  down  beside  the  couch,  watching  in  the 
dim  candle-light  for  a  sign  and  cherishing  her 
cold  hands.  Daylight  came;  they  put  the  shut- 
ters back  and  blew  out  the  candles.  Augustine, 
huddled  in  the  far  corner,  cried  gently  to  herself. 


THE   GREY  ANGEL  25 

Mademoiselle  had  withdrawn.  But  the  two  still 
knelt,  tears  running  down  their  cheeks.  The  face 
of  their  mother  was  so  transparent,  so  exhausted; 
the  least  little  twitching  of  just-opened  lips 
showed  that  she  breathed.  A  tiny  sigh  escaped; 
her  eyelids  fluttered.  The  son,  leaning  forward, 
said: 

"Sweetheart,  we're  here." 

The  eyes  opened  then;  something  more  than  a 
simple  human  spirit  seemed  to  look  through — it 
gazed  for  a  long,  long  minute;  then  the  lips 
parted.  They  bent  to  catch  the  sound. 

"My  darlings — don't  cry;  smile!"  And  the 
eyes  closed  again.  On  her  face  a  smile  so  touch- 
ing that  it  rent  the  heart  flickered  and  went  out. 
Breath  had  ceased  to  pass  the  faded  lips. 

In  the  long  silence  the  French  girl's  helpless 
sobbing  rose;  the  parrot  stirred  uneasily  in  his 
still-covered  cage.  And  the  son  and  daughter 
knelt,  pressing  their  faces  hard  against  the  couch. 

1917. 


n 

DEFEAT 

She  had  been  standing  there  on  the  pavement 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  after  her  shilling's 
worth  of  concert.  Women  of  her  profession  are 
not  supposed  to  have  redeeming  points,  especially 
when — like  May  Belinski,  as  she  now  preferred  to 
dub  herself — they  are  German;  but  this  woman 
certainly  had  music  in  her  soul.  She  often  gave 
herself  these  "music  baths"  when  the  Promenade 
Concerts  were  on,  and  had  just  spent  half  her 
total  wealth  in  listening  to  some  Mozart  and  a 
Beethoven  symphony. 

She  was  feeling  almost  elated,  full  of  divine 
sound,  and  of  the  wonderful  summer  moonlight 
which  was  filling  the  whole  dark  town.  Women 
"of  a  certain  type"  have,  at  all  events,  emotions 
— and  what  a  comfort  that  is,  even  to  themselves ! 
To  stand  just  there  had  become  rather  a  habit  of 
hers.  One  could  seem  to  be  waiting  for  some- 
body coming  out  of  the  concert,  not  yet  over — 
which,  of  course,  was  precisely  what  she  was 
doing.  One  need  not  forever  be  stealthily  glanc- 
ing and  perpetually  moving  on  in  that  peculiar 

27 


28  TATTERDEMALION 

way,  which,  while  it  satisfied  the  police  and  Mrs. 
Grundy,  must  not  quite  deceive  others  as  to  her 
business  in  life.  She  had  only  "been  at  it"  long 
enough  to  have  acquired  a  nervous  dread  of  almost 
everything — not  long  enough  to  have  passed 
through  that  dread  to  callousness.  Some  women 
take  so  much  longer  than  others.  And  even  for 
a  woman  "of  a  certain  type"  her  position  was  ex- 
ceptionally nerve-racking  in  war-time,  going  as 
she  did  by  a  false  name.  Indeed,  in  all  England 
there  could  hardly  be  a  greater  pariah  than  was 
this  German  woman  of  the  night. 

She  idled  outside  a  book-shop  humming  a  little, 
pretending  to  read  the  titles  of  the  books  by 
moonlight,  taking  off  and  putting  on  one  of  her 
stained  yellow  gloves.  Now  and  again  she 
would  move  up  as  far  as  the  posters  outside  the 
Hall,  scrutinising  them  as  if  interested  in  the 
future,  then  stroll  back  again.  In  her  worn  and 
discreet  dark  dress,  and  her  small  hat,  she  had 
nothing  about  her  to  rouse  suspicion,  unless  it 
were  the  trail  of  violet  powder  she  left  on  the 
moonlight. 

For  the  moonlight  this  evening  was  almost 
solid,  seeming  with  its  cool  still  vibration  to  re- 
place the  very  air;  in  it  the  war-time  precautions 
against  light  seemed  fantastic,  like  shading  can- 
dles in  a  room  still  full  of  daylight.  What  lights 


DEFEAT  29 

there  were  had  the  effect  of  strokes  and  stipples 
of  dim  colour  laid  by  a  painter's  brush  on  a  back- 
ground of  ghostly  whitish  blue.  The  dreamlike 
quality  of  the  town  was  perhaps  enhanced  for  her 
eyes  by  the  veil  she  was  wearing — in  daytime  no 
longer  white.  As  the  music  died  out  of  her,  ela- 
tion also  ebbed.  Somebody  had  passed  her, 
speaking  German,  and  she  was  overwhelmed  by 
a  rush  of  nostalgia.  On  this  moonlight  night  by 
the  banks  of  the  Rhine — whence  she  came — the 
orchards  would  be  heavy  with  apples;  there  would 
be  murmurs,  and  sweet  scents;  the  old  castle 
would  stand  out  clear,  high  over  the  woods  and 
the  chalky-white  river.  There  would  be  singing 
far  away,  and  the  churning  of  a  distant  steamer's 
screw;  and  perhaps  on  the  water  a  log  raft  still 
drifting  down  in  the  blue  light.  There  would 
be  German  voices  talking.  And  suddenly  tears 
oozed  up  in  her  eyes,  and  crept  down  through  the 
powder  on  her  cheeks.  She  raised  her  veil  and 
dabbed  at  her  face  with  a  little,  not-too-clean 
handkerchief,  screwed  up  in  her  yellow-gloved 
hand.  But  the  more  she  dabbed,  the  more  those 
treacherous  tears  ran.  Then  she  became  aware 
that  a  tall  young  man  in  khaki  was  also  standing 
before  the  shop-window,  not  looking  at  the  titles  of 
the  books,  but  eyeing  her  askance.  His  face  was 
fresh  and  open,  with  a  sort  of  kindly  eagerness  in 


30  TATTERDEMALION 

his  blue  eyes.  Mechanically  she  drooped  her  wet 
lashes,  raised  them  obliquely,  drooped  them  again, 
and  uttered  a  little  sob.  .  .  . 

This  young  man,  Captain  in  a  certain  regiment, 
and  discharged  from  hospital  at  six  o'clock  that 
evening,  had  entered  Queen's  Hall  at  half-past 
seven.  Still  rather  brittle  and  sore  from  his 
wound,  he  had  treated  himself  to  a  seat  in  the 
Grand  Circle,  and  there  had  sat,  very  still  and 
dreamy,  the  whole  concert  through.  It  had  been 
like  eating  after  a  long  fast — something  of  the 
sensation  Polar  explorers  must  experience  when 
they  return  to  their  first  full  meal.  For  he  was 
of  the  New  Army,  and  before  the  war  had  actually 
believed  in  music,  art,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
With  a  month's  leave  before  him,  he  could  afford 
to  feel  that  life  was  extraordinarily  joyful,  his 
own  experiences  particularly  wonderful;  and, 
coming  out  into  the  moonlight,  he  had  taken 
what  can  only  be  described  as  a  great  gulp  of  it, 
for  he  was  a  young  man  with  a  sense  of  beauty. 
When  one  has  been  long  in  the  trenches,  lain  out 
wounded  in  a  shell-hole  twenty-four  hours,  and 
spent  three  months  in  hospital,  beauty  has  such 
an  edge  of  novelty,  such  a  sharp  sweetness,  that 
it  almost  gives  pain.  And  London  at  night  is 
very  beautiful.  He  strolled  slowly  towards  the 
Circus,  still  drawing  the  moonlight  deep  into  his 


DEFEAT  31 

lungs,  his  cap  tilted  up  a  little  on  his  forehead  in 
that  moment  of  unmilitary  abandonment;  and 
whether  he  stopped  before  the  book-shop  window 
because  the  girl's  figure  was  in  some  sort  a  part 
of  beauty,  or  because  he  saw  that  she  was  crying, 
he  could  not  have  made  clear  to  any  one. 

Then  something — perhaps  the  scent  of  powder, 
perhaps  the  yellow  glove,  or  the  oblique  flutter  of 
the  eyelids — told  him  that  he  was  making  what 
he  would  have  called  "a  blooming  error,"  unless 
he  wished  for  company,  which  had  not  been  in 
his  thoughts.  But  her  sob  affected  him,  and  he 
said: 

"What's  the  matter?" 

Again  her  eyelids  fluttered  sideways,  and  she 
stammered: 

"Not'ing.  The  beautiful  evening  —  that's 
why!" 

That  a  woman  of  what  he  now  clearly  saw  to 
be  "a  certain  type"  should  perceive  what  he  him- 
self had  just  been  perceiving,  struck  him  forcibly, 
and  he  said: 

"Cheer  up." 

She  looked  up  again  swiftly:  "Cheer  up !  You 
are  not  lonelee  like  me." 

For  one  of  that  sort,  she  looked  somehow  hon- 
est; her  tear-streaked  face  was  rather  pretty,  and 
he  murmured: 


32  TATTERDEMALION 

"Well,  let's  walk  a  bit,  and  talk  it  over." 

They  turned  the  comer,  and  walked  east, 
along  streets  empty,  and  beautiful,  with  their 
dulled  orange-glowing  lamps,  and  here  and  there 
the  glint  of  some  blue  or  violet  light.  He  found 
it  queer  and  rather  exciting — for  an  adventure 
of  just  this  kind  he  had  never  had.  And  he  said 
doubtfully: 

"How  did  you  get  into  this?  Isn't  it  an 
awfully  hopeless  sort  of  life?" 

"Ye-es,  it  ees — "  her  voice  had  a  queer  soft 
emphasis.  "You  are  limping — haf  you  been 
wounded?" 

"Just  out  of  hospital  to-day." 

"The  horrible  war — all  the  misery  is  because  of 
the  war.  When  will  it  end?" 

He  looked  at  her  attentively,  and  said: 

"I  say — what  nationality  are  you?" 

"Rooshian." 

"Really !    I  never  met  a  Russian  girl." 

He  was  conscious  that  she  looked  at  him,  then 
very  quickly  down.  And  he  said  suddenly: 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  they  make  out?" 

She  slipped  her  yellow-gloved  hand  through  his 
arm. 

"Not  when  I  haf  any  one  as  nice" as  you;  I  never 
haf  yet,  though";  she  smiled — and  her  smile  was 
like  her  speech,  slow,  confiding — "you  stopped 


DEFEAT  3$ 

because  I  was  sad,  others  stop  because  I  am  gay. 
I  am  not  fond  of  men  at  all.  When  you  know,, 
you  are  not  fond  of  them." 

"Well!  You  hardly  know  them  at  their  best,, 
do  you?  You  should  see  them  at  the  front.  By 
George!  they're  simply  splendid — officers  and 
men,  every  blessed  soul.  There's  never  been  any- 
thing like  it — just  one  long  bit  of  jolly  fine  self- 
sacrifice;  it's  perfectly  amazing." 

Turning  her  blue-grey  eyes  on  him,  she  an- 
swered: 

"I  expect  you  are  not  the  last  at  that.  You- 
see  in  them  what  you  haf  in  yourself,  I  think." 

"Oh!  not  a  bit — you're  quite  out.  I  assure- 
you  when  we  made  the  attack  where  I  got 
wounded,  there  wasn't  a  single  man  in  my  regi- 
ment who  wasn't  an  absolute  hero.  The  wajr 
they  went  in — never  thinking  of  themselves — it 
was  simply  superb !" 

Her  teeth  came  down  on  her  lower  lip,  and  she 
answered  in  a  queer  voice:  "It  is  the  same  too 
perhaps  with — the  enemy." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  that." 

"Ah !  You  are  not  a  mean  man.  How  I  hate 
mean  men!" 

"Oh!  they're  not  mean  really — they  simply 
don't  understand." 

"Oh!  you  are  a  baby— a  good  baby,  aren't 
you?" 


34  TATTERDEMALION 

He  did  not  quite  like  being  called  a  baby,  and 
frowned;  but  was  at  once  touched  by  the  discon- 
certion in  her  powdered  face.  How  quickly  she 
was  scared ! 

She  said  clingingly: 

"But  I  li-ike  you  for  it.  It  is  so  good  to  find 
a  ni-ice  man." 

This  was  worse,  and  he  said  abruptly: 

"About  being  lonely?  Haven't  you  any  Rus- 
sian friends?" 

"  Rooshian !  No ! "  Then  quickly  added :  "  The 
town  is  so  beeg !  Haf  you  been  in  the  concert?" 

"Yes." 

"I,  too — I  love  music." 

"I  suppose  all  Russians  do." 

She  looked  up  at  his  face  again,  and  seemed  to 
struggle  to  keep  silent;  then  she  said  quietly: 

"I  go  there  always  when  I  haf  the  money." 

"What !    Are  you  so  on  the  rocks?" 

"Well,  I  haf  just  one  shilling  now."  And  she 
laughed. 

The  sound  of  that  little  laugh  upset  him — she 
had  a  way  of  making  him  feel  sorry  for  her  every 
time  she  spoke. 

They  had  come  by  now  to  a  narrow  square, 
east  of  Gower  Street. 

"This  is  where  I  lif,"  she  said.    "Come  in !" 

He  had  one  long  moment  of  violent  hesitation, 


DEFEAT  35 

then  yielded  to  the  soft  tugging  of  her  hand,  and 
followed.  The  passage-hall  was  dimly  lighted, 
and  they  went  upstairs  into  a  front  room,  where 
the  curtains  were  drawn,  and  the  gas  turned  very 
low.  Opposite  the  window  were  other  curtains 
dividing  off  the  rest  of  the  apartment.  As  soon 
as  the  door  was  shut  she  put  up  her  face  and 
kissed  him — evidently  formula.  What  a  room! 
Its  green  and  beetroot  colouring  and  the  preva- 
lence of  cheap  plush  disagreeably  affected  him. 
Everything  in  it  had  that  callous  look  of  rooms 
which  seem  to  be  saying  to  their  occupants: 
"You're  here  to-day  and  you'll  be  gone  to- 
morrow." Everything  except  one  little  plant, 
in  a  common  pot,  of  maidenhair  fern,  fresh  and 
green,  looking  as  if  it  had  been  watered  within 
the  hour;  in  this  room  it  had  just  the  same  un- 
expected touchingness  that  peeped  out  of  the 
girl's  matter-of-fact  cynicism. 

Taking  off  her  hat,  she  went  towards  the  gas, 
but  he  said  quickly: 

"No,  don't  turn  it  up;  let's  have  the  window 
open,  and  the  moonlight  in."  He  had  a  sudden 
dread  of  seeing  anything  plainly — it  was  stuffy, 
too,  and  pulling  the  curtains  apart,  he  threw  up 
the  window.  The  girl  had  come  obediently  from 
the  hearth,  and  sat  down  opposite  him,  leaning  her 
arm  on  the  window-sill  and  her  chin  on  her  hand. 


36     .  TATTERDEMALION 

The  moonlight  caught  her  cheek  where  she  had 
just  renewed  the  powder,  caught  her  fan*  crinkly 
hair;  it  caught  the  plush  of  the  furniture,  and  his 
own  khaki,  giving  them  all  a  touch  of  unreality. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  said. 

"May.  Well,  I  call  myself  that.  It's  no  good 
askin'  yours." 

"You're  a  distrustful  little  party,  aren't  you?" 

"I  haf  reason  to  be,  don't  you  think?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  you're  bound  to  think  us  all 
brutes?" 

"Well,  I  haf  a  lot  of  reasons  to  be  afraid  all 
my  time.  I  am  dreadfully  nervous  now;  I  am 
not  trusting  anybody.  I  suppose  you  haf  been 
killing  lots  of  Germans?" 

He  laughed. 

"We  never  know,  unless  it  happens  to  be  hand 
to  hand;  I  haven't  come  in  for  that  yet." 

"But  you  would  be  very  glad  if  you  had  killed 
some?" 

"Glad?  I  don't  think  so.  We're  all  in  the 
same  boat,  so  far  as  that's  concerned.  We're  not 
glad  to  kill  each  other.  We  do  our  job — that's 

"Oh !  it  is  frightful.  I  expect  I  haf  my  broders 
lolled." 

"Don't  you  get  any  news  ever?" 

"News!    No  indeed,  no  news  of  anybody  in 


DEFEAT  37 

my  country.  I  might  not  haf  a  country;  all  that 
I  ever  knew  is  gone — fader,  moder,  sisters,  broders, 
all — never  any  more  I  shall  see  them,  I  suppose, 
now.  The  war  it  breaks  and  breaks,  it  breaks 
hearts."  Her  little  teeth  fastened  again  on  her 
lower  lip  in  that  sort  of  pretty  snarl.  "Do  you 
know  what  I  was  thinkin'  when  you  came  up? 
I  was  thinkin*  of  my  native  town,  and  the  river 
there  in  the  moonlight.  If  I  could  see  it  again,  I 
would  be  glad.  Were  you  ever  homeseeck?" 

"Yes,  I  have  been — in  the  trenches;  but  one's 
ashamed,  with  all  the  others." 

"Ah!  ye-es!"  It  came  from  her  with  a  hiss. 
"Ye-es!  You  are  all  comrades  there.  What  is 
it  like  for  me  here,  do  you  think,  where  every- 
body hates  and  despises  me,  and  would  catch  me, 
and  put  me  in  prison,  perhaps?" 

He  could  see  her  breast  heaving  with  a  quick 
breathing  painful  to  listen  to.  He  leaned  for- 
ward, patting  her  knee,  and  murmuring:  "Sorry 
— sorry." 

She  said  in  a  smothered  voice: 

"You  are  the  first  who  has  been  kind  to  me 
for  so  long !  I  will  tell  you  the  truth — I  am  not 
Rooshian  at  all — I  am  German." 

Hearing  that  half -choked  confession,  his  thought 
was:  "Does  she  really  think  we  fight  against 
women?"  And  he  said: 


38  TATTERDEMALION 

"My  dear  girl,  who  cares?" 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  search  right  into  him.  She 
said  slowly: 

"Another  man  said  that  to  me.  But  he  was 
thinkin'  of  other  things.  You  are  a  veree  ni-ice 
boy.  I  am  so  glad  I  met  you.  You  see  the  good 
in  people,  don't  you?  That  is  the  first  thing  in 
the  world — because  there  is  really  not  much  good 
in  people,  you  know." 

He  said,  smiling: 

"You're  a  dreadful  little  cynic!"  Then 
thought:  "Of  course  she  is — poor  thing!" 

"Cyneec?  How  long  do  you  think  I  would 
live  if  I  was  not  a  cyneec?  I  should  drown  my- 
self to-morrow.  Perhaps  there  are  good  people, 
but,  you  see,  I  don't  know  them." 

"I  know  lots." 

She  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"Well  now — see,  ni-ice  boy — you  haf  never 
been  in  a  hole,  haf  you?" 

"I  suppose  not  a  real  hole." 

"No,  I  should  think  not,  with  your  face.  Well, 
suppose  I  am  still  a  good  girl,  as  I  was  once,  you 
know,  and  you  took  me  to  some  of  your  good 
people,  and  said:  'Here  is  a  little  German  girl 
that  has  no  work,  and  no  money,  and  no  friends/ 
Your  good  people  they  will  say:  'Oh!  how  sad! 
A  German  girl !'  and  they  will  go  and  wash  their 
hands." 


DEFEAT  39 

Silence  fell  on  him.  He  saw  his  mother,  his 
sisters,  others — good  people,  he  would  swear! 
And  yet — !  He  heard  their  voices,  frank  and 
clear;  and  they  seemed  to  be  talking  of  the  Ger- 
mans. If  only  she  were  not  German ! 

"You  see!"  he  heard  her  say,  and  could  only 
mutter: 

"I'm  sure  there  are  people." 

"No.  They  would  not  take  a  German,  even 
if  she  was  good.  Besides,  I  don't  want  to  be 
good  any  more — I  am  not  a  humbug — I  have 
learned  to  be  bad.  Aren't  you  going  to  kees  me, 
ni-ice  boy?" 

She  put  her  face  close  to  his.  Her  eyes  troubled 
him,  but  he  drew  back.  He  thought  she  would 
be  offended  or  persistent,  but  she  was  neither; 
just  looked  at  him  fixedly  with  a  curious  inquiring 
stare;  and  he  leaned  against  the  window,  deeply 
disturbed.  It  was  as  if  all  clear  and  simple  en- 
thusiasm had  been  suddenly  knocked  endways; 
as  if  a  certain  splendour  of  life  that  he  had  felt 
and  seen  of  late  had  been  dipped  in  cloud.  Out 
there  at  the  front,  over  here  in  hospital,  life  had 
been  seeming  so — as  it  were — heroic;  and  yet  it 
held  such  mean  and  murky  depths  as  well !  The 
voices  of  his  men,  whom  he  had  come  to  love  like 
brothers,  crude  burring  voices,  cheery  in  trouble, 
making  nothing  of  it;  the  voices  of  doctors  and 
nurses,  patient,  quiet,  reassuring  voices;  even  his 


40  TATTERDEMALION 

own  voice,  infected  by  it  all,  kept  sounding  in  his 
ears.  All  wonderful  somehow,  and  simple;  and 
nothing  mean  about  it  anywhere!  And  now  so 
suddenly  to  have  lighted  upon  this,  and  all  that 
was  behind  it — this  scared  girl,  this  base,  dark, 
thoughtless  use  of  her!  And  the  thought  came 
to  him:  "I  suppose  my  fellows  wouldn't  think 
twice  about  taking  her  on !  Why !  I'm  not  even 
certain  of  myself,  if  she  insists !"  And  he  turned 
his  face,  and  stared  out  at  the  moonlight.  He 
heard  her  voice: 

"Eesn't  it  light?  No  air  raid  to-night.  When 
the  Zepps  burned — what  a  horrible  death !  And 
all  the  people  cheered — it  is  natural.  Do  you 
hate  us  veree  much?" 

He  turned  round  and  said  sharply: 

"Hate?    I  don't  know." 

"I  don't  hate  even  the  English — I  despise  them. 
I  despise  my  people  too — perhaps  more,  because 
they  began  this  war.  Oh,  yes!  I  know  that. 
I  despise  all  the  peoples.  Why  haf  they  made 
the  world  so  miserable — why  haf  they  killed  all 
our  lives — hundreds  and  thousands  and  millions 
of  lives — all  for  not'ing?  They  haf  made  a  bad 
world — everybody  hating,  and  looking  for  the 
worst  everywhere.  They  haf  made  me  bad,  I 
know.  I  believe  no  more  in  anything.  What  is 
there  to  believe  in?  Is  there  a  God?  No! 


DEFEAT  41 

Once  I  was  teaching  little  English  children  their 
prayers — isn't  that  funnee?  I  was  reading  to 
them  about  Christ  and  love.  I  believed  all  those 
things.  Now  I  believe  not'ing  at  all — no  one  who 
is  not  a  fool  or  a  liar  can  believe.  I  would  like  to 
work  in  a  hospital;  I  would  like  to  go  and  help 
poor  boys  like  you.  Because  I  am  a  German 
they  would  throw  me  out  a  hundred  times,  even 
if  I  was  good.  It  is  the  same  in  Germany  and 
France  and  Russia,  everywhere.  But  do  you 
think  I  will  believe  in  love  and  Christ  and  a  God 
and  all  that  ? — not  I !  I  think  we  are  animals — 
that's  all !  Oh !  yes — you  fancy  it  is  because  my 
life  has  spoiled  me.  It  is  not  that  at  all — that's 
not  the  worst  thing  in  life.  Those  men  are  not 
ni-ice,  like  you,  but  it's  their  nature,  and,"  she 
laughed,  "they  help  me  to  live,  which  is  some- 
thing for  me  anyway.  No,  it  is  the  men  who 
think  themselves  great  and  good,  and  make  the 
war  with  their  talk  and  their  hate,  killing  us  all — 
killing  all  the  boys  like  you,  and  keeping  poor 
people  in  prison,  and  telling  us  to  go  on  hating; 
and  all  those  dreadful  cold-blooded  creatures  who 
write  in  the  papers — the  same  in  my  country, 
just  the  same;  it  is  because  of  all  them  that  I 
think  we  are  only  animals." 

He  got  up,  acutely  miserable.    He  could  see 
her  following  him  with  her  eyes,  and  knew  she 


42  TATTERDEMALION 

was  afraid  she  had  driven  him  away.  She  said 
coaxingly:  "Don't  mind  me  talking,  ni-ice  boy. 
I  don't  know  any  one  to  talk  to.  If  you  don't 
like  it,  I  can  be  quiet  as  a  mouse." 

He  muttered: 

"Oh!  go  on;  talk  away.  I'm  not  obliged  to 
believe  you,  and  I  don't." 

She  was  on  her  feet  now,  leaning  against  the 
wall;  her  dark  dress  and  white  face  just  touched 
by  the  slanting  moonlight;  and  her  voice  came 
again,  slow  and  soft  and  bitter: 

"Well,  look  here,  ni-ice  boy,  what  sort  of  a 
world  is  it,  where  millions  are  being  tortured — 
horribly  tortured,  for  no  fault  of  theirs,  at  all? 
A  beautiful  world,  isn't  it !  'Umbug !  Silly  rot, 
as  you  boys  call  it.  You  say  it  is  all  'Comrade' ! 
and  braveness  out  there  at  the  front,  and  people 
don't  think  of  themselves.  Well,  I  don't  think 
of  myself  veree  much.  What  does  it  matter — I 
am  lost  now,  anyway;  but  I  think  of  my  people 
at  home,  how  they  suffer  and  grieve.  I  think  of 
all  the  poor  people  there  and  here  who  lose  those 
they  love,  and  all  the  poor  prisoners.  Am  I  not 
to  think  of  them?  And  if  I  do,  how  am  I  to  be- 
lieve it  a  beautiful  world,  ni-ice  boy?" 

He  stood  very  still,  biting  his  lips. 

"Look  here!  We  haf  one  life  each,  and  soon 
it  is  over.  Well,  I  think  that  is  lucky." 


DEFEAT  43 

He  said  resentfully: 

"No!  there's  more  than  that." 

"Ah !"  she  went  on  softly;  "you  think  the  war 
is  fought  for  the  future;  you  are  giving  your  lives 
for  a  better  world,  aren't  you?" 

"We  must  fight  till  we  win,"  he  said  between 
his  teeth. 

"Till  you  win.  My  people  think  that,  too. 
All  the  peoples  think  that  if  they  win  the  world 
will  be  better.  But  it  will  not,  you  know,  it  will 
be  much  worse,  anyway." 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  caught  up  his 
cap;  but  her  voice  followed  him. 

"I  don't  care  which  win,  I  despise  them  all — 
— animals — animals — animals!  Ah!  Don't  go, 
ni-ice  boy — I  will  be  quiet  now." 

He  took  some  notes  from  his  tunic  pocket,  put 
them  on  the  table,  and  went  up  to  her. 

"Good-night." 

She  said  plaintively: 

"Are  you  really  going?  Don't  you  like  me, 
enough?" 

"Yes,  I  like  you." 

"It  is  because  I  am  German,  then?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  won't  you  stay?" 

He  wanted  to  answer:  "Because  you  upset  me 
so";  but  he  just  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


44  TATTERDEMALION 

"Won't  you  kees  me  once?" 

He  bent,  and  put  his  lips  to  her  forehead;  but 
as  he  took  them  away  she  threw  her  head  back,, 
pressed  her  mouth  to  his,  and  clung  to  him. 

He  sat  down  suddenly  and  said: 

"Don't !    I  don't  want  to  feel  a  brute." 

She  laughed.  "You  are  a  funny  boy,  but  you 
are  veree  good.  Talk  to  me  a  little,  then.  No 
one  talks  to  me.  I  would  much  rather  talk,  any- 
way. Tell  me,  haf  you  seen  many  German  pris- 
oners?" 

He  sighed — from  relief,  or  was  it  from  regret? 

"A  good  many." 

"Any  from  the  Rhine?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"Were  they  very  sad?" 

"Some  were — some  were  quite  glad  to  be 
taken." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  Rhine  ?  Isn't  it  beaudi- 
ful?  It  will  be  wonderful  to-night.  The  moon- 
light will  be  the  same  here  as  there;  in  Rooshia 
too,  and  France,  everywhere;  and  the  trees  will 
look  the  same  as  here,  and  people  will  meet  under 
them  and  make  love  just  as  here.  Oh!  isn't  it 
stupid,  the  war? — as  if  it  was  not  good  to  be 
alive." 

He  wanted  to  say:  "You  can't  tell  how  good  it 
is  to  be  alive,  till  you're  facing  death,  because  you 


DEFEAT  45 

don't  live  till  then.  And  when  a  whole  lot  of 
you  feel  like  that — and  are  ready  to  give  their 
lives  for  each  other,  it's  worth  all  the  rest  of  life 
put  together."  But  he  couldn't  get  it  out  to 
this  girl  who  believed  in  nothing. 

"How  were  you  wounded,  ni-ice  boy?" 

"Attacking  across  open  ground — four  machine- 
gun  bullets  got  me  at  one  go  off." 

"Weren't  you  veree  frightened  when  they  or- 
dered you  to  attack?"  No,  he  had  not  been 
frightened  just  then!  And  he  shook  his  head 
and  laughed. 

s"It  was  great.    We  did  laugh  that  morning. 
They  got  me  much  too  soon,  though — a  swindle  I" 

She  stared  at  him. 

"You  laughed?" 

"Yes,  and  what  do  you  think  was  the  first 
thing  I  was  conscious  of  next  morning — my  old 
Colonel  bending  over  me  and  giving  me  a  squeeze 
of  lemon.  If  you  knew  my  Colonel  you'd  still 
believe  in  things.  There  is  something,  you  know, 
behind  all  this  evil.  After  all,  you  can  only  die 
once,  and  if  it's  for  your  country  all  the  bet- 
ter." 

Her  face,  with  intent  eyes  just  touched  with 
bistre,  had  in  the  moonlight  a  most  strange,  other- 
world  look.  Her  lips  moved: 

"No,  I  believe  in  nothing.    My  heart  is  dead." 


46  TATTERDEMALION 

"You  think  so,  but  it  isn't,  you  know,  or  you 
wouldn't  have  been  crying,  when  I  met  you." 

"If  it  were  not  dead,  do  you  think  I  could  live 
my  life — walking  the  streets  every  night,  pretend- 
ing to  like  strange  men — never  hearing  a  kind 
word — never  talking,  for  fear  I  will  be  known  for 
a  German.  Soon  I  shall  take  to  drinking,  then  I 
shall  be  'Kaput'  very  quick.  You  see,  I  am 
practical,  I  see  things  clear.  To-night  I  am  a 
little  emotional;  the  moon  is  funny,  you  know. 
But  I  live  for  myself  only,  now.  I  don't  care  for 
anything  or  anybody." 

"All  the  same,  just  now  you  were  pitying  your 
people,  and  prisoners,  and  that." 

"Yes,  because  they  suffer.  Those  who  suffer 
are  like  me — I  pity  myself,  that's  all;  I  am  differ- 
ent from  your  Englishwomen.  I  see  what  I  am 
doing;  I  do  not  let  my  mind  become  a  turnip 
just  because  I  am  no  longer  moral." 

"Nor  your  heart  either." 

"Ni-ice  boy,  you  are  veree  obstinate.  But  all 
that  about  love  is  'umbug.  We  love  ourselves, 
nothing  more." 

Again,  at  that  intense  soft  bitterness  in  her 
voice,  he  felt  stifled,  and  got  up,  leaning  in  the 
window.  The  air  out  there  was  free  from  the 
smell  of  dust  and  stale  perfume.  He  felt  her 
fingers  slip  between  his  own,  and  stay  unmoving. 


DEFEAT  47 

Since  she  was  so  hard,  and  cynical,  why  should  he 
pity  her?  Yet  he  did.  The  touch  of  that  hand 
within  his  own  roused  his  protective  instinct. 
She  had  poured  out  her  heart  to  him — a  perfect 
stranger!  He  pressed  it  a  little,  and  felt  her 
fingers  crisp  in  answer.  Poor  girl!  This  was 
perhaps  a  friendlier  moment  than  she  had  known 
for  years !  And  after  all,  fellow-feeling  was  bigger 
than  principalities  and  powers!  Fellow-feeling 
was  all-pervading  as  this  moonlight,  which  she 
had  said  would  be  the  same  in  Germany — as  this 
white  ghostly  glamour  that  wrapped  the  trees, 
making  the  orange  lamps  so  quaint  and  decora- 
tively  useless  out  in  the  narrow  square,  where 
emptiness  and  silence  reigned.  He  looked  around 
into  her  face — in  spite  of  bistre  and  powder,  and 
the  faint  rouging  on  her  lips,  it  had  a  queer, 
unholy,  touching  beauty.  And  he  had  suddenly 
the  strangest  feeling,  as  if  they  stood  there — the 
two  of  them — proving  that  kindness  and  human 
fellowship  were  stronger  than  lust,  stronger  than 
hate;  proving  it  against  meanness  and  brutality, 
and  the  sudden  shouting  of  newspaper  boys  in 
some  neighbouring  street.  Their  cries,  passion- 
ately vehement,  clashed  into  each  other,  and  ob- 
scured the  words — what  was  it  they  were  calling  ? 
His  head  went  up  to  listen;  he  felt  her  hand  rigid 
within  his  arm — she  too  was  listening.  The  cries 


48  TATTERDEMALION 

/ 

came  nearer,  hoarser,  more  shrill  and  clamorous; 
the  empty  moonlight  seemed  of  a  sudden  crowded 
with  footsteps,  voices,  and  a  fierce  distant  cheer- 
ing. "Great  victory — great  victory!  Official! 
British!  Defeat  of  the  JUns!  Many  thousand 
prisoners!"  So  it  sped  by,  intoxicating,  filling 
him  with  a  fearful  joy;  and  leaning  far  out,  he 
waved  his  cap  and  cheered  like  a  madman;  and 
the  whole  night  seemed  to  him  to  flutter  and 
vibrate,  and  answer.  Then  he  turned  to  rush 
down  into  the  street,  struck  against  something 
soft,  and  recoiled.  The  girl !  She  stood  with 
hands  clenched,  her  face  convulsed,  panting,  and 
even  in  the  madness  of  his  joy  he  felt  for  her. 
To  hear  this — in  the  midst  of  enemies !  All  con- 
fused with  the  desire  to  do  something,  he  stooped 
to  take  her  hand;  and  the  dusty  reek  of  the 
table-cloth  clung  to  his  nostrils.  She  snatched 
away  her  fingers,  swept  up  the  notes  he  had  put 
down,  and  held  them  out  to  him. 

"Take  them — I  will  not  haf  your  English  money 
— take  them."  And  suddenly  she  tore  them 
across  twice,  three  times,  let  the  bits  flutter  to 
the  floor,  and  turned  her  back  to  him.  He  stood 
looking  at  her  leaning  against  the  plush-covered 
table  which  smelled  of  dust;  her  head  down,  a 
dark  figure  in  a  dark  room  with  the  moonlight 
sharpening  her  outline — hardly  a  moment  he 
stayed,  then  made  for  the  door.  .  .  . 


DEFEAT  49 

When  he  was  gone  she  still  stood  there,  her 
chin  on  her  breast — she  who  cared  for  nothing, 
believed  in  nothing — with  the  sound  in  her  ears 
of  cheering,  of  hurrying  feet,  and  voices;  stood, 
in  the  centre  of  a  pattern  made  by  fragments  of 
the  torn-up  notes,  staring  out  into  the  moonlight, 
seeing,  not  this  hated  room  and  the  hated  square 
outside,  but  a  German  orchard,  and  herself,  a 
little  girl,  plucking  apples,  a  big  dog  beside  her; 
a  hundred  other  pictures,  too,  such  as  the  drown- 
ing see.  Her  heart  swelled;  she  sank  down  on 
the  floor,  laid  her  forehead  on  the  dusty  carpet, 
and  pressed  her  body  to  it. 

She  who  did  not  care — who  despised  all  peoples, 
even  her  own — began,  mechanically,  to  sweep 
together  the  scattered  fragments  of  the  notes, 
assembling  them  with  the  dust'  into  a  little  pile, 
as  of  fallen  leaves,  and  dabbling  in  it  with  her 
fingers,  while  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 
For  her  country  she  had  torn  them,  her  country 
in  defeat !  She,  who  had  just  one  shilling  in  this 
great  town  of  enemies,  who  wrung  her  stealthy 
living  out  of  the  embraces  of  her  foes !  And  sud- 
denly in  the  moonlight  she  sat  up  and  began  to 
sing  with  all  her  might — "Die  Wacht  am  Rhein." 

1916. 


m 

FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM 

A   REMINISCENCE 

The  tides  of  the  war  were  washing  up  millions 
of  wrecked  lives  on  all  the  shores;  what  mattered 
the  flotsam  of  a  conscripted  deep-sea  Breton  fish- 
erman, slowly  pining  away  for  lack  of  all  he  was 
accustomed  to;  or  the  jetsam  of  a  tall  glass- 
blower  from  the  'invaded  countries/  drifted  into 
the  hospital — no  one  quite  knew  why — prisoner 
for  twenty  months  with  the  Boches,  released  at 
last  because  of  his  half-paralysed  tongue — What 
mattered  they?  What  mattered  anything,  or 
any  one,  in  days  like  those? 

Corporal  Mignan,  wrinkling  a  thin,  parch- 
menty  face,  full  of  suffering  and  kindly  cynicism, 
used  to  call  them  'mes  deux  phenomenes.'  Rid- 
dled to  the  soul  by  gastritis,  he  must  have  found 
them  trying  roommates,  with  the  tricks  and  man- 
ners of  sick  and  naughty  children  towards  a  long- 
suffering  nurse.  To  understand  all  is  to  forgive 
all,  they  say;  but,  though  he  had  suffered  enough 
to  understand  much,  Mignan  was  tempted  at 

51 


52  TATTERDEMALION 

times  to  deliver  judgment — for  example,  when 
Roche,  the  Breton  fisherman,  rose  from  his  bed 
more  than  ten  times  in  the  night,  and  wandered 
out  into  the  little  courtyard  of  the  hospital,  to 
look  at  the  stars,  because  he  could  not  keep  still 
within  four  walls — so  unreasonable  of  the  'type.' 
Or  when  Gray,  the  tall  glass-blower — his  grand- 
father had  been  English — refused  with  all  the 
tenacity  of  a  British  workman  to  wear  an  under- 
vest,  with  the  thermometer  below  zero,  Centigrade. 
They  inhabited  the  same  room,  Flotsam  and 
Jetsam,  but  never  spoke  to  one  another.  And 
yet  in  all  that  hospital  of  French  soldiers  they 
were  the  only  two  who,  in  a  manner  of  speaking, 
had  come  from  England.  Fourteen  hundred 
years  have  passed  since  the  Briton  ancestors  of 
Roche  crossed  in  their  shallow  boats.  Yet  he 
was  as  hopelessly  un-French  as  a  Welshman  of  the 
hills  is  to  this  day  un-English.  His  dark  face, 
shy  as  a  wild  animal's,  his  peai>-brown  eyes,  and 
the  rare,  strangely-sweet  smile  which  once  in  a 
way  strayed  up  into  them ;  his  creased  brown  hands 
always  trying  to  tie  an  imaginary  cord;  the  tobacco 
pouched  in  his  brown  cheek;  his  improperly-but- 
toned blue  trousers;  his  silence  eternal  as  the  stars 
themselves;  his  habit  of  climbing  trees — alLmarked 
him  out  as  no  true  Frenchman.  Indeed,  that 
habit  of  climbing  trees  caused  every  soul  who  saw 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  53 

him  to  wonder  if  he  ought  to  be  at  large:  monkeys 
alone  pursue  this  pastime.  And  yet, — surely  one 
might  understand  that  trees  were  for  Roche  the 
masts  of  his  far-off  fishing  barque,  each  hand-grip 
on  the  branch  of  plane  or  pine-tree  solace  to  his 
overmastering  hunger  for  the  sea.  Up  there  he 
would  cling,  or  stand  with  hands  in  pockets,  and 
look  out,  far  over  the  valley  and  the  yellowish- 
grey-pink  of  the  pan-tiled  town-roofs,  a  mile 
away,  far  into  the  mountains  where  snow  melted 
not,  far  over  this  foreign  land  of  'midi  trois  quarts,' 
to  an  imagined  Breton  coast  and  the  seas  that  roll 
from  there  to  Cape  Breton  where  the  cod  are. 
Since  he  never  spoke  unless  spoken  to — no,  not 
once — it  was  impossible  for  his  landsmen  com- 
rades to  realise  why  he  got  up  those  trees,  and 
they  would  summon  each  other  to  observe  this 
'ph&nomene,'  this  human  ourang-outang,  who  had 
not  their  habit  of  keeping  firm  earth  beneath 
their  feet.  They  understood  his  other  eccen- 
tricities better.  For  instance,  he  could  not  stay 
still  even  at  his  meals,  but  must  get  up  and  slip 
out,  because  he  chewed  tobacco,  and,  since  the 
hospital  regulations  forbade  his  spitting  on  the 
floor,  he  must  naturally  go  and  spit  outside.  For 
'ces  types-la1  to  chew  and  drink  was — life!  To 
the  presence  of  tobacco  in  the  cheek  and  the  ab- 
sence of  drink  from  the  stomach  they  attributed 


54  TATTERDEMALION 

all  his  un-French  ways,  save  just  that  one  mysteri- 
ous one  of  climbing  trees. 

And  Gray — though  only  one-fourth  English — 
how  utterly  British  was  that  'arrogant  civilian/ 
as  the  'poilus'  called  him.  Even  his  clothes, 
somehow,  were  British — no  one  knew  who  had 
given  them  to  him;  his  short  grey  workman's 
jacket,  brown  dingy  trousers,  muffler  and  checked 
cap;  his  long,  idle  walk,  his  absolute  sans-g&ne, 
regardless  of  any  one  but  himself;  his  tall,  loose 
figure,  with  a  sort  of  grace  lurking  somewhere  in 
its  slow,  wandering  movements,  and  long,  thin 
fingers.  That  wambling,  independent  form  might 
surely  be  seen  any  day  outside  a  thousand  British 
public-houses,  in  time  of  peace.  His  face,  with 
its  dust-coloured  hair,  projecting  ears,  grey  eyes 
with  something  of  the  child  in  them,  and  some- 
thing of  the  mule,  and  something  of  a  soul  trying 
to  wander  out  of  the  forest  of  misfortune;  his 
little,  tip-tilted  nose  that  never  grew  on  pure- 
blooded  Frenchman;  under  a  scant  moustache  his 
thick  lips,  disfigured  by  infirmity  of  speech,  whence 
passed  so  continually  a  dribble  of  saliva — sick 
British  workman  was  stamped  on  him.  Yet  he 
was  passionately  fond  of  washing  himself;  his 
teeth,  his  head,  his  clothes.  Into  the  frigid 
winter  he  would  go,  and  stand  at  the  'Source'  half 
an  hour  at  a  time,  washing  and  washing.  It  was 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  55 

a  cause  of  constant  irritation  to  Mignan  that  his 
'phenomene'  would  never  come  to  time,  on  ac- 
count of  this  disastrous  habit;  the  hospital  cor- 
ridors resounded  almost  daily  with  the  importun- 
ing of  those  shapeless  lips  for  something  clean — 
a  shirt,  a  pair  of  drawers,  a  bath,  a  handkerchief. 
He  had  a  fixity  of  purpose;  not  too  much  purpose, 
but  so  fixed. — Yes,  he  was  English ! 

For  'les  deux  phenomenes'  the  soldiers,  the  ser- 
vants, and  the  'Powers'  of  the  hospital — all  were 
sorry;  yet  they  could  not  understand  to  the 
point  of  quite  forgiving  their  vagaries.  The 
twain  were  outcast,  wandering  each  in  a  dumb 
world  of  his  own,  each  in  the  endless  circle  of  one 
or  two  hopeless  notions.  It  was  irony — or  the 
French  system — which  had  ordered  the  Breton 
Roche  to  get  well  in  a  place  whence  he  could  see 
nothing  flatter  than  a  mountain,  smell  no  sea, 
eat  no  fish.  And  God  knows  what  had  sent  Gray 
there.  His  story  was  too  vaguely  understood, 
for  his  stumbling  speech  simply  could  not  make 
it  plain.  'Les  Boches — ils  vont  en  payer  cher — les 
Boches,'  muttered  fifty  times  a  day,  was  the  bur- 
den of  his  song.  Those  Boches  had  come  into 
his  village  early  in  the  war,  torn  him  from  his 
wife  and  his  l  petite  fille?  Since  then  he  had  'had 
fear,'  been  hungry,  been  cold,  eaten  grass;  eyeing 
some  fat  little  dog,  he  would  leer  and  mutter: 


56  TATTERDEMALION 

'J'ai  mange  cela,  c'est  bon!'  and  with  fierce  tri- 
umph add:  'Ils  ont  faim,  les  Bodies!'  The  'ar- 
rogant civilian'  had  never  done  his  military  ser- 
vice, for  his  infirmity,  it  seemed,  had  begun  be- 
fore the  war. 

Dumb,  each  in  his  own  way,  and  differing  in 
every  mortal  thing  except  the  reality  of  their  mis- 
fortunes, never  were  two  beings  more  lonely. 
Their  quasi-nurse,  Corporal  Mignan,  was  no  doubt 
right  in  his  estimate  of  their  characters.  For  him, 
so  patient  in  the  wintry  days,  with  his  ldeux 
phenomenes,'  they  were  divested  of  all  that  halo 
which  misfortune  sets  round  the  heads  of  the- 
afflicted.  He  had  too  much  to  do  with  them, 
and  saw  them  as  they  would  have  been  if  un- 
dogged  by  Fate.  Of  Roche  he  would  say:  'II 
n'est  pas  mon  reve.  Je  n'aime  pas  ces  types  tad- 
turnes;  quand  meme,  il  n'est  pas  mauvais.  II  est 
marin — les  marins — /'  and  he  would  shrug  his 
shoulders,  as  who  should  say:  ' Those  poor  devils 
— what  can  you  expect?'  'Mais  ce  Gray' — it 
was  one  bitter  day  when  Gray  had  refused  abso- 
lutely to  wear  his  great-coat  during  a  motor 
drive — l  c'est  un  mauvais  type!  II  est  malin — il 
sail  tres  Men  ce  qu'il  veut.  C'est  un  egoiste  ! '  An 
egoist !  Poor  Gray !  No  doubt  he  was,  instinc- 
tively conscious  that  if  he  did  not  make  the  most 
of  what  little  personality  was  left  within  his  wan- 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  57 

dering  form,  it  would  slip  and  he  would  be  no 
more.  Even  a  winter  fly  is  mysteriously  anxious 
not  to  become  dead.  That  he  was  'malin' — • 
cunning — became  the  accepted  view  about  Gray; 
not  so  'malin'  that  he  could  'cut  three  paws  off 
a  duck/  as  the  old  grey  Territorial,  Grandpere 
Poirot,  would  put  it,  but  'malm'  enough  to  know 
very  well  what  he  wanted,  and  how,  by  sticking 
to  his  demand,  to  get  it.  Mignan,  typically 
French,  did  not  allow  enough  for  the  essential 
Englishman  in  Gray.  Besides,  one  must  be  malin 
if  one  has  only  the  power  to  say  about  one-tenth 
of  what  one  wants,  and  then  not  be  understood 
once  in  twenty  times.  Gray  did  not  like  his 
great-coat — a  fine  old  French-blue  military  thing 
with  brass  buttons — the  arrogant  civilian  would 
have  none  of  it !  It  was  easier  to  shift  the  Boches 
on  the  Western  front  than  to  shift  an  idea,  once 
in  his  head.  In  the  poor  soil  of  his  soul  the  fol- 
lowing plants  of  thought  alone  now  flourished: 
Hatred  of  the  Boches;  love  of  English  tobacco — 
*Il  est  bon — il  est  bon!'  he  would  say,  tapping 
his  Virginian  cigarette;  the  wish  to  see  again  his 
'petite  fittV;  to  wash  himself;  to  drink  a  'cafe 
natur'  and  bottled  beer  every  day  after  the  mid- 
day meal,  and  to  go  to  Lyons  to  see  his  uncle  and 
work  for  his  living.  And  who  shall  say  that 
any  of  these  fixed  ideas  were  evil  in  him? 


58  TATTERDEMALION 

But  back  to  Flotsam,  whose  fixed  idea  was 
Brittany!  Nostalgia  is  a  long  word,  and  a 
malady  from  which  the  English  do  not  suffer, 
for  they  carry  their  country  on  their  backs,  walk 
the  wide  world  in  a  cloud  of  their  own  atmos- 
phere, making  that  world  England.  The  French 
have  eyes  to  see,  and,  when  not  surrounded  by 
houses  that  have  flatness,  shutters,  and  subtle 
colouring — yellowish,  French-grey,  French-green 
— by  cafe's,  by  plane-trees,  by  Frenchwomen,  by 
scents  of  wood-smoke  and  coffee  roasted  in  the 
streets;  by  the  wines,  and  infusions  of  the  herbs 
of  France;  by  the  churches  of  France  and  the 
beautiful  silly  chiming  of  their  bells — when  not 
surrounded  by  all  these,  they  know  it,  feel  it, 
suffer.  But  even  they  do  not  suffer  so  dumbly 
and  instinctively,  so  like  a  wild  animal  caged,  as 
that  Breton  fisherman,  caged  up  in  a  world  of 
hill  and  valley — not  the  world  as  he  had  known 
it.  They  called  his  case  ' shell-shock' — for  the 
French  system  would  not  send  a  man  to  con- 
valescence for  anything  so  essentially  civilian  as 
home-sickness,  even  when  it  had  taken  a  claus- 
trophobic turn.  A  system  recognises  only  causes 
which  you  can  see;  holes  in  the  head,  hamstrung 
legs,  frostbitten  feet,  with  other  of  the  legitimate 
consequences  of  war.  But  it  was  not  shell-shock. 
Roche  was  really  possessed  by  the  feeling  that  he 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  59 

would  never  get  out,  never  get  home,  smell  fish 
and  the  sea,  watch  the  bottle-green  breakers  roll 
in  on  his  native  shore,  the  sun  gleaming  through 
wave-crests  lifted  and  flying  back  in  spray,  never 
know  the  accustomed  heave  and  roll  under  his 
feet,  or  carouse  in  a  seaport  cabaret,  or  see  his 
old  mother — la  veuve  Roche.  And,  after  all, 
there  was  a  certain  foundation  for  his  fear.  It 
was  not  as  if  this  war  could  be  expected  to  stop 
some  day.  There  they  were,  in  the  trenches, 
they  and  the  enemy  set  over  against  each  other, 
'like  china  dogs/  in  the  words  of  Grandpere 
Poirot;  and  there  they  would  be,  so  far  as  Roche's 
ungeared  nerves  could  grasp,  for  ever.  And, 
while  like  china  dogs  they  sat,  he  knew  that  he 
would  not  be  released,  not  allowed  to  go  back  to 
the  sea  and  the  smells  and  the  sounds  thereof; 
for  he  had  still  all  his  limbs,  and  no  bullet-hole  to 
show  under  his  thick  dark  hair.  No  wonder  he 
got  up  the  trees  and  looked  out  for  sight  of  the 
waves,  and  fluttered  the  weak  nerves  of  the  hos- 
pital 'Powers/  till  they  saw  themselves  burying 
him  with  a  broken  spine,  at  the  expense  of  the 
subscribers.  Nothing  to  be  done  for  the  poor 
fellow,  except  to  take  him  motor-drives,  and  to 
insist  that  he  stayed  in  the  dining-room  long 
enough  to  eat  some  food. 
Then,  one  bright  day,  a  'Power/  watching  his 


60  TATTERDEMALION 

hands,  conceived  the  idea  of  giving  him  two  balls 
of  string,  one  blue,  the  other  buff,  and  all  that 
afternoon  he  stayed  up  a  single  tree,  and  came 
down  with  one  of  his  rare  sweet  smiles  and  a 
little  net,  half  blue,  hah*  buff,  with  a  handle  cov- 
ered with  a  twist  of  Turkey-red  twill — such  a 
thing  as  one  scoops  up  shrimps  with.  He  was 
paid  for  it,  and  his  eyes  sparkled.  You  see,  he 
had  no  money — the  'poilu'  seldom  has;  and 
money  meant  drink,  and  tobacco  in  his  cheek. 
They  gave  him  more  string,  and  for  the  next  few 
days  it  rained  little  nets,  beautifully  if  simply 
made.  They  thought  that  his  salvation  was  hi 
sight.  It  takes  an  eye  to  tell  salvation  from 
damnation,  sometimes.  ...  In  any  case,  he  no 
longer  roamed  from  tree  to  tree,  but  sat  across  a 
single  branch,  netting.  The  'Powers'  began  to 
speak  of  him  as  '  rather  a  dear,'  for  it  is  charac- 
teristic of  human  nature  to  take  interest  only  in 
that  which  by  some  sign  of  progress  makes  you 
feel  that  you  are  doing  good. 

Next  Sunday  a  distinguished  doctor  came, 
and,  when  he  had  been  fed,  some  one  conceived 
the  notion  of  interesting  him,  too,  in  Flotsam. 
A  learned,  kindly,  influential  man — well-fed — 
something  might  come  of  it,  even  that  'reforme,' 
that  sending  home,  which  all  agreed  was  what 
poor  Roche  needed,  to  restore  his  brain.  He  was 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  61 

brought  in,  therefore,  amongst  the  chattering 
party,  and  stood,  dark,  shy,  his  head  down,  like 
the  man  in  Millet's  *  Angelus,'  his  hands  folded  on 
his  cap,  in  front  of  his  unspeakably  buttoned  blue 
baggy  trousers,  as  though  in  attitude  of  prayer  to 
the  doctor,  who,  uniformed  and  grey-bearded, 
like  an  old  somnolent  goat,  beamed  on  him  through 
spectacles  with  a  sort  of  shrewd  benevolence. 
The  catechism  began.  So  he  had  something  to 
ask,  had  he?  A  swift,  shy  lift  of  the  eyes:  'Yes/ 
'What  then?'  'To  go  home.'  'To  go  home? 
What  for  ?  To  get  married  ? '  A  swift,  shy  smile. 
'Fair  or  dark?'  No  answer,  only  a  shift  of 
hands  on  his  cap.  '  What !  Was  there  no  one — 
no  ladies  at  home  ? '  '  Ce  n'est  pas  $a  qui  manque  ! ' 
At  the  laughter  greeting  that  dim  flicker  of  wit 
the  uplifted  face  was  cast  down  again.  That 
lonely,  lost  figure  must  suddenly  have  struck  the 
doctor,  for  his  catechism  became  a  long,  embar- 
rassed scrutiny;  and  with  an:  'Eh  bien !  mon 
vieux,  nous  verrons!'  ended.  Nothing  came  of 
it,  of  course.  'Cos  de  reforme?'  Oh,  certainly, 
if  it  had  depended  on  the  learned,  kindly  doctor. 
But  the  system — and  all  its  doors  to  be  unlocked ! 
Why,  by  the  time  the  last  door  was  prepared  to 
open,  the  first  would  be  closed  again!  So  the 
'Powers'  gave  Roche  more  string — so  good,  you 
know,  to  see  him  interested  in  something!  .  .  . 


62  TATTERDEMALION 

It  does  take  an  eye  to  tell  salvation  from  damna- 
tion !  For  he  began  to  go  down  now  of  an  after- 
noon into  the  little  old  town — not  smelless,  but 
most  quaint — all  yellowish-grey,  with  rosy-tiled 
roofs.  Once  it  had  been  Roman,  once  a  walled 
city  of  the  Middle  Ages;  never  would  it  be  mod- 
ern. The  dogs  ran  muzzled;  from  a  first-floor  a 
goat,  munching  green  fodder,  hung  his  devilish 
black  beard  above  your  head;  and  through  the 
main  street  the  peasant  farmers,  above  military 
age,  looking  old  as  sun-dried  roots,  in  their  dark 
pelerines,  drove  their  wives  and  produce  in  little 
slow  carts.  Parched  oleanders  in  pots  one  would 
pass,  and  old  balconies  with  wilting  flowers  hang- 
ing down  over  the  stone,  and  perhaps  an  um- 
brella with  a  little  silver  handle,  set  out  to  dry. 
Koche  would  go  in  by  the  back  way,  where  the 
old  town  gossips  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  winter  sun- 
shine, facing  the  lonely  cross  shining  gold  on  the 
high  hill-top  opposite,  placed  there  in  days  when 
there  was  some  meaning  in  such  things;  past  the 
little  'Place'  with  the  old  fountain  and  the  brown 
plane-trees  in  front  of  the  Maine;  past  the  church, 
so  ancient  that  it  had  fortunately  been  forgotten, 
and  remained  unfinished  and  beautiful.  Did 
Roche,  Breton  that  he  was — half  the  love-ladies  in 
Paris,  they  say — falsely,  no  doubt — are  Bretonnes 
— ever  enter  the  church  in  passing?  Some  rascal 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  63 

had  tried  to  burn  down  its  beautiful  old  door 
from  the  inside,  and  the  flames  had  left  on  all 
that  high  western  wall  smears  like  the  finger- 
marks of  hell,  or  the  background  of  a  Velasquez 
Crucifixion.  Did  he  ever  enter  and  stand,  knot- 
ting his  knot  which  never  got  knotted,  in  the 
dark  loveliness  of  that  grave  building,  where  in 
the  deep  silence  a  dusty-gold  little  angel  blows  on 
his  horn  from  the  top  of  the  canopied  pulpit, 
and  a  dim  carved  Christ  of  touching  beauty 
looks  down  on  His  fellow-men  from  above  some 
dry  chrysanthemums;  and  a  tall  candle  burned 
quiet  and  lonely  here  and  there,  and  the  flags  of 
France  hung  above  the  altar,  that  men  might 
know  how  God — though  resting — was  with  them 
and  their  country  ?  Perhaps !  But,  more  likely, 
he  passed  it,  with  its  great  bell  riding  high  and 
open  among  scrolls  of  ironwork,  and — Breton  that 
he  was — entered  the  nearest  cabaret,  kept  by 
the  woman  who  would  tell  you  that  her  soldier 
husband  had  passed  'within  two  fingers'  of  death. 
One  cannot  spend  one's  earnings  in  a  church,  nor 
appease  there  the  inextinguishable  longings  of  a 
sailor. 

And  lo ! — on  Christmas  day  Roche  came  back 
so  drunk  that  his  nurse  Mignan  took  him  to  his 
bedroom  and  turned  the  key  of  the  door  on  him. 
But  you  must  not  do  this  to  a  Breton  fisherman 


64  TATTERDEMALION 

full  of  drink  and  claustrophobia.  It  was  one  of 
those  errors  even  Frenchmen  may  make,  to  the 
after  sorrow  of  their  victims.  One  of  the  female 
<  Powers/  standing  outside,  heard  a  roar,  the 
crash  of  a  foot  against  the  panel  of  a  door,  and 
saw  Roche,  'like  a  great  cat'  come  slithering 
through  the  hole.  He  flung  his  arm  out,  brushed 
the  'Power'  back  against  the  wall,  cried  out 
fiercely:  'La  botte — je  ne  veux  pas  la  botte  /'  and 
rushed  for  the  stairs.  Here  were  other  female 
'Powers';  he  dashed  them  aside  and  passed  down. 
But  in  the  bureau  at  the  foot  was  a  young  Cor- 
poral of  the  'Legion  Etrangere' — a  Spaniard  who 
had  volunteered  for  France — great  France;  he 
ran  out,  took  Roche  gently  by  the  arm,  and 
offered  to  drink  with  him.  And  so  they  sat, 
those  two,  in  the  little  bureau,  drinking  black 
coffee,  while  the  young  Corporal  talked  like  an 
angel  and  Roche  like  a  wild  man — about  his 
mother,  about  his  dead  brother  who  had  been 
sitting  on  his  bed,  as  he  said,  about  '  la  botte,'  and 
the  turning  of  that  key.  And  slowly  he  became 
himself — or  so  they  thought — and  all  went  in  to 
supper.  Ten  minutes  later  one  of  the  'Powers/ 
looking  for  the  twentieth  time  to  make  sure  he 
was  eating,  saw  an  empty  place:  he  had  slipped 
out  like  a  shadow  and  was  gone  again.  A  big 
cavalryman  and  the  Corporal  retrieved  him  that 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  65 

night  from  a  cafi  near  the  station;  they  had  to 
use  force  at  times  to  bring  him  in.  Two  days 
later  he  was  transferred  to  a  town  hospital,  where 
discipline  would  not  allow  him  to  get  drunk  or 
climb  trees.  For  the '  Powers '  had  reasoned  thus : 
To  climb  trees  is  bad;  to  get  drunk  is  bad;  but 
to  do  both  puts  on  us  too  much  responsibility; 
he  must  go!  They  had,  in  fact,  been  scared. 
And  so  he  passed  away  to  a  room  under  the  roof 
of  a  hospital  in  the  big  town  miles  away — la 
botte  indeed! — where  for  liberty  he  must  use  a 
courtyard  without  trees,  and  but  little  tobacco 
came  to  his  cheek;  and  there  he  eats  his  heart 
out  to  this  day,  perhaps.  But  some  say  he  had 
no  heart — only  the  love  of  drink,  and  climbing. 
Yet,  on  that  last  evening,  to  one  who  was  paying 
him  for  a  little  net,  he  blurted  out:  'Some  day  I 
will  tell  you  something — not  now — in  a  year's 
time.  Vous  foes  le  seul —  /'  What  did  he  mean 
by  that,  if  he  had  no  heart  to  eat?  .  .  .  The 
night  after  he  had  gone,  a  little  black  dog  strayed 
up,  and  among  the  trees  barked  and  barked  at 
some  portent  or  phantom.  'Ah!  the  camel! 
Ah !  the  pig !  I  had  him  on  my  back  all  night !' 
Grandpere  Poirot  said  next  morning.  That  was 
the  very  last  of  Flotsam.  .  .  . 

And  now  to  Jetsam!    It  was  on  the  day  but 
one  after  Roche  left  that  Gray  was  reported 


66  TATTERDEMALION 

missing.  For  some  time  past  he  had  been  getting 
stronger,  clearer  in  speech.  They  began  to  say 
of  him:  'It's  wonderful — the  improvement  since 
he  came — wonderful !'  His  salvation  also  seemed 
in  sight.  But  from  the  words  'He's  rather  a 
dear!'  all  recoiled,  for  as  he  grew  stronger  he  be- 
came more  stubborn  and  more  irritable — 'cun- 
ning egoist'  that  he  was !  According  to  the  men, 
he  was  beginning  to  show  himself  in  his  true 
colours.  He  had  threatened  to  knife  any  one 
who  played  a  joke  on  him — the  arrogant  civilian ! 
On  the  day  that  he  was  missing  it  appears  that 
after  the  midday  meal  he  had  asked  for  a  'ca/d 
natur'  and  for  some  reason  had  been  refused. 
Before  his  absence  was  noted  it  was  night  already, 
clear  and  dark;  all  day  something  as  of  Spring 
had  stirred  in  the  air.  The  Corporal  and  a 
'Power'  set  forth  down  the  wooded  hill  into  the 
town,  to  scour  the  caf£s  and  hang  over  the  swift, 
shallow  river,  to  see  if  by  any  chance  Gray  had 
been  overtaken  by  another  paralytic  stroke  and 
was  down  there  on  the  dark  sand.  The  sleepy 
gendarmes  too  were  warned  and  given  his  de- 
scription. But  the  only  news  next  morning  was 
that  he  had  been  seen  walking  on  the  main  road 
up  the  valley.  Two  days  later  he  was  found, 
twenty  miles  away,  wandering  towards  Italy. 
'Perdu'  was  his  only  explanation,  but  it  was  not 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  67 

"believed,  for  now  began  that  continual  demand: 
*Je  voudrais  oiler  a  Lyon,  voir  mon  oncle — tra- 
vailler!'  As  the  big  cavalryman  put  it:  'He  is 
bored  here!'  It  was  considered  unreasonable, 
by  soldiers  who  found  themselves  better  off  than 
in  other  hospitals;  even  the  ' Powers'  considered 
it  ungrateful,  almost.  See  what  he  had  been  like 
when  he  came — a  mere  trembling  bag  of  bones, 
only  too  fearful  of  being  sent  away.  And  yet, 
who  would  not  be  bored,  crouching  all  day  long 
about  the  stoves,  staunching  his  poor  dribbling 
mouth,  rolling  his  inevitable  cigarette,  or  wander- 
ing down,  lonely,  to  hang  over  the  bridge  parapet, 
having  thoughts  in  his  head  and  for  ever  unable 
to  express  them.  His  state  was  worse  than 
dumbness,  for  the  dumb  have  resigned  hope  of 
conversation.  Gray  would  have  liked  to  talk  if 
it  had  not  taken  about  five  minutes  to  under- 
stand each  thing  he  said — except  the  refrain 
which  all  knew  by  heart:  'Les  Bodies — ils  vont 
en  payer  cher — les  Bodies  /'  The  idea  that  he 
could  work  and  earn  his  living  was  fantastic  to 
those  who  watched  him  dressing  himself,  or  sweep- 
ing the  courtyard,  pausing  every  few  seconds  to 
contemplate  some  invisible  difficulty,  or  do  over 
again  what  he  had  just  not  done.  But  with  that 
new  access  of  strength,  or  perhaps  the  open 
weather — as  if  Spring  had  come  before  its  time — 


68  TATTERDEMALION 

his  fixed  idea  governed  him  completely;  he  began 
to  threaten  to  kill  himself  if  he  could  not  go  to 
work  and  see  his  uncle  at  Lyon;  and  every  five 
days  or  so  he  had  to  be  brought  back  from  far 
up  some  hill  road.  The  situation  had  become  so 
ridiculous  that  the  'Powers'  said  in  despair: 
1  Very  well,  my  friend !  Your  uncle  says  he  can't 
have  you,  and  you  can't  earn  your  own  living 
yet;  but  you  shall  go  and  see  for  yourself !'  And 
go  he  did,  a  little  solemn  now  that  it  had  come  to 
his  point — in  specially  bought  yellow  boots — he 
refused  black — and  a  specially  bought  overcoat 
with  sleeves — he  would  have  none  of  a  pelerine, 
the  arrogant  civilian,  no  more  than  of  a  military 
capote.  For  a  week  the  hospital  knew  him  not. 
Deep  winter  set  in  two  days  before  he  went,  and 
the  whole  land  was  wrapped  in  snow.  The  huge, 
disconsolate  crows  seemed  all  the  life  left  in  the 
valley,  and  poplar-trees  against  the  rare  blue  sky 
were  dowered  with  miraculous  snow-blossoms, 
beautiful  as  any  blossom  of  Spring.  And  still  in 
the  winter  sun  the  town  gossips  sat  on  the  bench 
under  the  wall,  and  the  cross  gleamed  out,  and  the 
church  bell,  riding  high  in  its  whitened  ironwork, 
tolled  almost  every  day  for  the  passing  of  some 
wintered  soul,  and  long  processions,  very  black 
in  the  white  street,  followed  it,  followed  it — home. 
Then  came  a  telegram  from  Gray's  uncle:  'Im- 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  69 

possible  to  keep  Aristide  (the  name  of  the  arro- 
gant civilian),  takes  the  evening  train  to-morrow. 
Albert  Gray.'  So  Jetsam  was  coming  back! 
What  would  he  be  like  now  that  his  fixed  idea 
had  failed  him?  Well!  He  came  at  midday; 
thinner,  more  clay-coloured  in  the  face,  with  a 
bad  cold;  but  he  ate  as  heartily  as  ever,  and  at 
once  asked  to  go  to  bed.  At  four  o'clock  a 
*  Power/  going  up  to  see,  found  him  sleeping  like 
a  child.  He  slept  for  twenty  hours  on  end.  No 
one  liked  to  question  him  about  his  time  away; 
all  that  he  said — and  bitterly — was:  'They  would- 
n't let  me  work ! '  But  the  second  evening  after 
his  return  there  came  a  knock  on  the  door  of  the 
little  room  where  the  'Powers'  were  sitting  after 
supper,  and  there  stood  Gray,  long  and  shadowy, 
holding  on  to  the  screen,  smoothing  his  jaw-bone 
with  the  other  hand,  turning  eyes  like  a  child's 
from  face  to  face,  while  his  helpless  lips  smiled. 
One  of  the  'Powers'  said:  'What  do  you  want, 
my  friend?' 

fJe  voudrais  alter  a  Paris,  voir  ma  petite  filled 
'Yes,  yes;  after  the  war.    Your  petite  fille  is 
not  in  Paris,  you  know.' 

'Non  ?'  The  smile  was  gone;  it  was  seen  too 
plainly  that  Gray  was  not  as  he  had  been.  The 
access  of  vigour,  stirring  of  new  strength,  'im- 
provement' had  departed,  but  the  beat  of  it, 


70  TATTERDEMALION 

while  there,  must  have  broken  him,  as  the  beat 
of  some  too-strong  engine  shatters  a  frail  frame. 
His  'improvement'  had  driven  him  to  his  own 
undoing.  With  the  failure  of  his  pilgrimage  he 
had  lost  all  hope,  all  'egoism/  ...  It  takes  an 
eye,  indeed,  to  tell  salvation  from  damnation! 
He  was  truly  Jetsam  now — terribly  thin  and  ill 
and  sad;  and  coughing.  Yet  he  kept  the  inde- 
pendence of  his  spirit.  In  that  bitter  cold,  noth- 
ing could  prevent  him  stripping  to  the  waist  to 
wash,  nothing  could  keep  him  lying  in  bed,  or 
kill  his  sense  of  the  proprieties.  He  would  not 
wear  his  overcoat — it  was  invalidish;  he  would 
not  wear  his  new  yellow  boots  and  keep  his  feet 
dry,  except  on  Sundays:  '77s  sont  bons  !'  he  would 
say.  And  before  he  would  profane  their  goodness, 
his  old  worn-out  shoes  had  to  be  reft  from  him. 
He  would  not  admit  that  he  was  ill,  that  he  was 
cold,  that  he  was — anything.  But  at  night,  a 
'Power'  would  be  awakened  by  groans,  and, 
hurrying  to  his  room,  find  him  huddled  nose  to 
knees,  moaning.  And  now,  every  evening,  as 
though  craving  escape  from  his  own_company, 
he  would  come  to  the  little  sitting-room,  and  stand 
with  that  deprecating  smile,  smoothing  his  jaw- 
bone, until  some  one  said:  'Sit  down,  my  friend, 
and  have  some  coffee.'  'Merti,  ma  sceur — il  est 
bon,  il  est  bon  /'  and  down  he  would  sit,  and  roll 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  71 

a  cigarette  with  his  long  fingers,  tapering  as  any 
artist's,  while  his  eyes  fixed  themselves  intently 
on  anything  that  moved.  But  soon  they  would 
stray  off  to  another  world,  and  he  would  say 
thickly,  sullenly,  fiercely:  'Les  Boches — Us  vont 
en  payer  cher — les  Boches  ! '  On  the  walls  were 
some  trophies  from  the  war  of  ' seventy.'  His 
eyes  would  gloat  over  them,  and  he  would  get  up 
and  finger  a  long  pistol,  or  old  papier-mache  hel- 
met. Never  was  a  man  who  so  lacked  g&ne — at 
home  in  any  company;  it  inspired  reverence,  that 
independence  of  his,  which  had  survived  twenty 
months  of  imprisonment  with  those  who,  it  is 
said,  make  their  victims  salute  them — to  such  a 
depth  has  then*  civilisation  reached.  One  night 
he  tried  to  tell  about  the  fright  he  had  been  given. 
The  Boches — it  seemed — had  put  him  and  two 
others  against  a  wall,  and  shot  those  other  two. 
Holding  up  two  tapering  fingers,  he  mumbled: 
'Assassins — assassins !  Ils  vont  en  payer  cher — 
les  Boches ! '  But  sometimes  there  was  some- 
thing almost  beautiful  in  his  face,  as  if  his  soul 
had  rushed  from  behind  his  eyes,  to  answer  some 
little  kindness  done  to  him,  or  greet  some  memory 
of  the  days  before  he  was  'done  for'—foutu,  as 
he  called  it. 

One  day  he  admitted  a  pain  about  his  heart; 
and  time,  too,  for  at  moments  he  would  look  like 


72  TATTERDEMALION 

death  itself.  His  nurse,  Corporal  Mignan,  had 
long  left  his  'deux  phenomenes!'  having  drifted 
away  on  the  tides  of  the  system,  till  he  should 
break  down  again  and  drag  through  the  hospitals 
once  more.  Gray  had  a  room  to  himself  now; 
the  arrogant  civilian's  groaning  at  night  disturbed 
the  others.  Yet,  if  you  asked  him  in  the  morn- 
ing if  he  had  slept  well,  he  answered  invariably, 
'Oui — oui — toujours,  toujours  !'  For,  according 
to  him,  you  see,  he  was  still  strong;  and  he  would 
double  his  arm  and  tap  his  very  little  muscle,  to 
show  that  he  could  work.  But  he  did  not  believe 
it  now,  for  one  day  a  'Power,'  dusting  the  men's 
writing-room,  saw  a  letter  on  the  blotter,  and  with 
an  ashamed  eye  read  these  words: — 

'Cher  Oncle, 

J'ai  eu  la  rage  contre  toi,  mais  c'est  passe  maintenanf. 
Je  veux  seulement  me  reposer.  Je  ne  peux  pas  me  battre 
pour  la  France — j'ai  voulu  travailler  pour  elle  ;  mais  on  ne 
m'a  pas  permi. 

Votre  neveu,  qui  fembrasse  de  loin.' 

Seulement  me  reposer — only  to  rest!  Rest  he 
will,  soon,  if  eyes  can  speak.  Pass,  and  leave  for 
ever  that  ravished  France  for  whom  he  wished  to 
work — pass,  without  having  seen  again  his  petite 
fille.  No  more  in  the  corridor  above  the  stove, 
no  more  in  the  little  dining-room  or  the  avenue 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM  73 

of  pines  will  be  seen  his  long,  noiseless,  lonely 
figure,  or  be  heard  his  thick  stumbling  cry: 
'Les  Bodies — ils  vont  en  payer  cher — les  Bodies ! ' 
1917. 


IV 
THE  BRIGHT  SIDE 

A  little  Englishwoman,  married  to  a  German; 
had  dwelt  with  him  eighteen  years  in  humble 
happiness  and  the  district  of  Putney,  where  her 
husband  worked  in  the  finer  kinds  of  leather. 
He  was  a  harmless,  busy  little  man  with  the  gift 
for  turning  his  hand  to  anything  which  is  bred 
into  the  peasants  of  the  Black  Forest,  who  on 
their  upland  farms  make  all  the  necessaries  of 
daily  life — their  coarse  linen  from  home-grown 
flax,  their  leather  gear  from  the  hides  of  their 
beasts,  their  clothes  from  the  wool  thereof,  their 
furniture  from  the  pine  logs  of  the  Forest,  their 
bread  from  home-grown  flour  milled  in  simple 
fashion  and  baked  in  the  home-made  ovens,  their 
cheese  from  the  milk  of  their  own  goats.  Why 
he  had  come  to  England  he  probably  did  not  re- 
member— it  was  so  long  ago;  but  he  would  still 
know  why  he  had  married  Dora,  the  daughter  of 
the  Putney  carpenter,  she  being,  as  it  were,  salt 
of  the  earth:  one  of  those  Cockney  women,  deeply 
sensitive  beneath  a  well-nigh  impermeable  mask 
of  humour  and  philosophy,  who  quite  unselfcon- 

75 


76  TATTERDEMALION 

sciously  are  always  doing  things  for  others.  In 
their  little  grey  Putney  house  they  had  dwelt 
those  eighteen  years,  without  perhaps  ever  having 
had  time  to  move,  though  they  had  often  had  the 
intention  of  doing  so  for  the  sake  of  the  children, 
of  whom  they  had  three,  a  boy  and  two  girls. 
Mrs.  Gerhardt — she  shall  be  called,  for  her  hus- 
band had  a  very  German  name,  and  there  is  more 
in  a  name  than  Shakespeare  dreamed  of — Mrs. 
Gerhardt  was  a  little  woman  with  large  hazel 
eyes  and  dark  crinkled  hair  in  which  there  were 
already  a  few  threads  of  grey  when  the  war  broke 
out.  Her  boy  David,  the  eldest,  was  fourteen  at 
that  date,  and  her  girls,  Minnie  and  Violet,  were 
eight  and  five,  rather  pretty  children,  especially 
the  little  one.  Gerhardt,  perhaps  because  he  was 
so  handy,  had  never  risen.  His  firm  regarded 
him  as  indispensable  and  paid  him  fair  wages,  but 
he  had  no  "push/'  having  the  craftsman's 
temperament,  and  employing  his  spare  time  in 
little  neat  jobs  for  his  house  and  his  neighbours, 
which  brought  him  no  return.  They  made  their 
way,  therefore,  without  that  provision  for  the 
future  which  necessitates  the  employment  of  one's 
time  for  one's  own  ends.  But  they  were  happy, 
and  had  no  enemies;  and  each  year  saw  some 
mild  improvements  in  their  studiously  clean 
house  and  tiny  back  garden.  Mrs.  Gerhardt,  who 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  77 

was  cook,  seamstress,  washerwoman,  besides  being 
wife  and  mother,  was  almost  notorious  in  that 
street  of  semi-detached  houses  for  being  at  the 
disposal  of  any  one  in  sickness  or  trouble.  She 
was  not  strong  in  body,  for  things  had  gone 
wrong  when  she  bore  her  first,  but  her  spirit  had 
that  peculiar  power  of  seeing  things  as  they  were, 
and  yet  refusing  to  be  dismayed,  which  so  em- 
barrasses Fate.  She  saw  her  husband's  defects 
clearly,  and  his  good  qualities  no  less  distinctly — 
they  never  quarrelled.  She  gauged  her  children's 
characters  too,  with  an  admirable  precision,  which 
left,  however,  loopholes  of  wonder  as  to  what 
they  would  become. 

The  outbreak  of  the  war  found  them  on  the 
point  of  going  to  Margate  for  Bank  Holiday,  an 
almost  unparalleled  event;  so  that  the  importance 
of  the  world  catastrophe  was  brought  home  to 
them  with  a  vividness  which  would  otherwise 
have  been  absent  from  folks  so  simple,  domestic, 
and  far-removed  from  that  atmosphere  in  which 
the  egg  of  war  is  hatched.  Over  the  origin  and 
merits  of  the  struggle,  beyond  saying  to  each 
other  several  tunes  that  it  was  a  dreadful  thing, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gerhardt  held  but  one  little  con- 
versation, lying  in  their  iron  bed  with  an  im- 
mortal brown  eiderdown  patterned  with  red 
wriggles  over  them.  They  agreed  that  it  was  a 


78  TATTERDEMALION 

cruel,  wicked  thing  to  invade  "that  little  Bel- 
gium," and  there  left  a  matter  which  seemed  to 
them  a  mysterious  and  insane  perversion  of  all 
they  had  hitherto  been  accustomed  to  think  of 
as  life.  Reading  their  papers — a  daily  and  a 
weekly,  in  which  they  had  as  much  implicit  faith 
as  a  million  other  readers — they  were  soon  duly 
horrified  by  the  reports  therein  of  "Hun"  atroci- 
ties; so  horrified  that  they  would  express  their 
condemnation  of  the  Kaiser  and  his  militarism  as 
freely  as  if  they  had  been  British  subjects.  It 
was  therefore  with  an  uneasy  surprise  that  they 
began  to  find  these  papers  talking  of  "the  Huns 
at  large  in  our  midst,"  of  "spies,"  and  the  na- 
tional danger  of  "nourishing  such  vipers."  They 
were  deeply  conscious  of  not  being  "vipers,"  and 
such  sayings  began  to  awaken  in  both  then- 
breasts  a  humble  sense  of  injustice  as  it  were. 
This  was  more  acute  in  the  breast  of  little  Mrs. 
Gerhardt,  because,  of  course,  the  shafts  were 
directed  not  at  her  but  at  her  husband.  She 
knew  her  husband  so  well,  knew  him  incapable 
of  anything  but  homely,  kindly  busyness,  and 
that  he  should  be  lumped  into  the  category  of 
"Huns"  and  "spies"  and  tarred  with  the  brush 
of  mass  hatred  amazed  and  stirred  her  indignation, 
or  would  have,  if  her  Cockney  temperament  had 
allowed  her  to  take  it  very  seriously.  As  for 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  79 

Gerhardt,  he  became  extremely  silent,  so  that  it 
was  ever  more  and  more  difficult  to  tell  what  he 
was  feeling.  The  patriotism  of  the  newspapers 
took  a  considerable  time  to  affect  the  charity  of 
the  citizens  of  Putney,  and  so  long  as  no  neigh- 
bour showed  signs  of  thinking  that  little  Ger- 
hardt was  a  monster  and  a  spy  it  was  fairly  easy 
for  Mrs.  Gerhardt  to  sleep  at  night,  and  to  read 
her  papers  with  the  feeling  that  the  remarks  in 
them  were  not  really  intended  for  Gerhardt  and 
herself.  But  she  noticed  that  her  man  had  given 
up  reading  them,  and  would  push  them  away 
from  his  eyes  if,  in  the  tiny  sitting-room  with  the 
heavily-flowered  walls,  they  happened  to  rest 
beside  him.  He  had  perhaps  a  closer  sense  of 
impending  Fate  than  she.  The  boy,  David, 
went  to  his  first  work,  and  the  girls  to  their  school, 
and  so  things  dragged  on  through  that  first  long 
war  winter  and  spring.  Mrs.  Gerhardt,  in  the 
intervals  of  doing  everything,  knitted  socks  for 
"our  poor  cold  boys  in  the  trenches,"  but  Ger- 
hardt no  longer  sought  out  little  jobs  to  do  in 
the  houses  of  his  neighbours.  Mrs.  Gerhardt 
thought  that  he  "fancied"  they  would  not  like 
it.  It  was  early  in  that  spring  that  she  took  a 
deaf  aunt  to  live  with  them,  the  wife  of  her 
mother's  brother,  no  blood-relation,  but  the  poor 
woman  had  nowhere  else  to  go;  so  David  was 


80  TATTERDEMALION 

put  to  sleep  on  the  horsehair  sofa  in  the  sitting- 
room  because  she  "couldn't  refuse  the  poor 
thing."  And  then,  of  an  April  afternoon,  while 
she  was  washing  the  household  sheets,  her  neigh- 
bour, Mrs.  Clirehugh,  a  little  spare  woman  all 
eyes,  cheekbones,  hair,  and  decision,  came  in 
breathless  and  burst  out: 

"Oh !  Mrs.  Gerhardt,  'ave  you  'eard?  They've 
sunk  the  Loositania!  Has  I  said  to  Will:  Isn't 
ithorful?" 

Mrs.  Gerhardt,  with  her  round  arms  dripping 
soap-suds,  answered:  "What  a  dreadful  thing  1 
The  poor  drowning  people!  Dear!  Oh  dear!" 

"Oh!  Those  Huns!  I'd  shoot  the  lot,  I 
would!" 

"They  are  wicked!"  Mrs.  Gerhardt  echoed: 
"That  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  do !" 

But  it  was  not  till  Gerhardt  came  in  at  five 
o'clock,  white  as  a  sheet,  that  she  perceived  how 
this  dreadful  catastrophe  affected  them. 

"I  have  been  called  a  German,"  were  the  first 
words  he  uttered;  "Dollee,  I  have  been  called  a 
German." 

"Well,  so  you  are,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ger- 
hardt. 

"You  do  not  see,"  he  answered,  with  a  heat 
and  agitation  which  surprised  her.  "I  tell  you 
this  Lusitania  will  finish  our  business.  They 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  81 

will  have  me.  They  will  take  me  away  from  you 
all.  Already  the  papers  have:  ' Intern  all  the 
Huns."1  He  sat  down  at  the  kitchen  table  and 
buried  his  face  in  hands  still  grimy  from  his 
leather  work.  Mrs.  Gerhardt  stood  beside  him, 
her  eyes  unnaturally  big. 

"But  Max,"  she  said,  "what  has  it  to  do  with 
you?  You  couldn't  help  it.  Max!" 

Gerhardt  looked  up,  his  white  face,  broad  in 
the  brow  and  tapering  to  a  thin  chin,  seemed  all 
distraught. 

"What  do  they  care  for  that?  Is  my  name 
Max  Gerhardt?  What  do  they  care  if  I  hate 
the  war?  I  am  a  German.  That's  enough. 
You  will  see." 

"Oh!"  murmured  Mrs.  Gerhardt,  "they  won't 
be  so  unjust." 

Gerhardt  reached  up  and  caught  her  chin  in 
his  hand,  and  for  a  moment  those  two  pairs  of 
eyes  gazed,  straining,  into  each  other.  Then  he 
said: 

"I  don't  want  to  be  taken,  Dollee.  What 
shall  I  do  away  from  you  and  the  children?  I 
don't  want  to  be  taken,  Dollee." 

Mrs.  Gerhardt,  with  a  feeling  of  terror  and  a 
cheerful  smile,  answered: 

"You  mustn't  go  fancyin'  things,  Max.  I'll 
make  you  a  nice  cup  of  tea.  Cheer  up,  old  man ! 
Look  on  the  bright  side!" 


82  TATTERDEMALION 

But  Gerhardt  lapsed  into  the  silence  which  of 
late  she  had  begun  to  dread. 

That  night  some  shop  windows  were  broken, 
some  German  names  effaced.  The  Gerhardts  had 
no  shop,  no  name  painted  up,  and  they  escaped. 
In  Press  and  Parliament  the  cry  against  "the 
Huns  in  our  midst"  rose  with  a  fresh  fury;  but 
for  the  Gerhardts  the  face  of  Fate  was  with- 
drawn. Gerhardt  went  to  his  work  as  usual,  and 
their  laborious  and  quiet  existence  remained  un- 
disturbed; nor  could  Mrs.  Gerhardt  tell  whether 
her  man's  ever-deepening  silence  was  due  to  his 
"fancying  things"  or  to  the  demeanour  of  his 
neighbours  and  fellow  workmen.  One  would 
have  said  that  he,  like  the  derelict  aunt,  was 
deaf,  so  difficult  to  converse  with  had  he  become. 
His  length  of  sojourn  in  England  and  his  value 
to  his  employers,  for  he  had  real  skill,  had  saved 
him  for  the  time  being;  but,  behind  the  screen, 
Fate  twitched  her  grinning  chaps. 

Not  till  the  howl  which  followed  some  air  raids 
in  1916  did  they  take  off  Gerhardt,  with  a  variety 
of  other  elderly  men,  whose  crime  it  was  to  have 
been  born  in  Germany.  They  did  it  suddenly, 
and  perhaps  it  was  as  well,  for  a  prolonged  sight 
of  his  silent  misery  must  have  upset  his  family 
till  they  would  have  been  unable  to  look  on  that 
bright  side  of  things  which  Mrs.  Gerhardt  had, 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  83 

as  it  were,  always  up  her  sleeve.  When,  in  charge 
of  a  big  and  sympathetic  constable,  he  was  gone, 
taking  all  she  could  hurriedly  get  together  for 
him,  she  hastened  to  the  police  station.  They 
were  friendly  to  her  there:  She  must  cheer  up, 
Missis,  'e'd  be  all  right,  she  needn't  worry.  Ah ! 
she  could  go  down  to  the  'Ome  Office,  if  she  liked, 
and  see  what  could  be  done.  But  they  'eld  out 
no  'ope !  Mrs.  Gerhardt  waited  till  the  morrow, 
having  the  little  Violet  in  bed  with  her,  and  cry- 
ing quietly  into  her  pillow;  then,  putting  on  her 
Sunday  best  she  went  down  to  a  building  in 
Whitehall,  larger  than  any  she  had  ever  entered. 
Two  hours  she  waited,  sitting  unobtrusive,  with 
big  anxious  eyes,  and  a  line  between  her  brows. 
At  intervals  of  half  an  hour  she  would  get  up  and 
ask  the  messenger  cheerfully:  "I  'ope  they  haven't 
forgotten  me,  sir.  Perhaps  you'd  see  to  it." 
And  because  she  was  cheerful  the  messenger  took 
her  under  his  protection,  and  answered:  "All 
right,  Missis.  They're  very  busy,  but  I'll  wangle 
you  in  some'ow." 

When  at  length  she  was  wangled  into  the 
presence  of  a  grave  gentleman  in  eye-glasses, 
realisation  of  the  utter  importance  of  this  mo- 
ment overcame  her  so  that  she  could  not  speak. 
"Oh!  dear" — she  thought,  while  her  heart  flut- 
tered like  a  bird — "he'll  never  understand;  I'll 


84  TATTERDEMALION 

never  be  able  to  make  him."  She  saw  her  hus- 
band buried  under  the  leaves  of  despair;  she  saw 
her  children  getting  too  little  food,  the  deaf  aunt, 
now  bedridden,  neglected  in  the  new  pressure  of 
work  that  must  fall  on  the  only  breadwinner  left. 
And,  choking  a  little,  she  said: 

"I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry  to  take  up  your 
time,  sir;  but  my  'usband's  been  taken  to  the 
Palace;  and  we've  been  married  over  twenty 
years,  and  he's  been  in  England  twenty-five; 
and  he's  a  very  good  man  and  a  good  workman; 
and  I  thought  perhaps  they  didn't  understand 
that;  and  we've  got  three  children  and  a  relation 
that's  bedridden.  And  of  course,  we  understand 
that  the  Germans  have  been  very  wicked;  Ger- 
hardt  always  said  that  himself.  And  it  isn't  as 
if  he  was  a  spy;  so  I  thought  if  you  could  do 
something  for  us,  sir,  I  being  English  myself." 

The  gentleman,  looking  past  her  at  the  wall, 
answered  wearily: 

"Gerhardt — I'll  look  into  it.  We  have  to  do 
very  hard  things,  Mrs.  Gerhardt." 

Little  Mrs.  Gerhardt,  with  big  eyes  almost 
starting  out  of  her  head,  for  she  was  no  fool,  and 
perceived  that  this  was  the  end,  said  eagerly: 

"Of  course  I  know  that  there's  a  big  outcry, 
and  the  papers  are  askin'  for  it;  but  the  people 
in  our  street  don't  mind  'im,  sir.  He's  always 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  85 

done  little  things  for  them;  so  I  thought  perhaps 
you  might  make  an  exception  in  his  case." 

She  noticed  that  the  gentleman's  lips  tightened 
at  the  word  outcry,  and  that  he  was  looking  at 
her  now. 

"His  case  was  before  the  Committee  no  doubt; 
but  I'll  inquire.  Good-morning." 

Mrs.  Gerhardt,  accustomed  to  not  being  trouble- 
some, rose;  a  tear  rolled  down  her  cheek  and  was 
arrested  by  her  smile. 

"Thank   you,   sir,   I'm  sure.    Good-morning, 


sir." 


And  she  went  out.  Meeting  the  messenger  in 
the  corridor,  and  hearing  his:  "Well,  Missis?" 
she  answered:  "I  don't  know.  I  must  look  on 
the  bright  side.  Good-bye,  and  thank  you  for 
your  trouble."  And  she  turned  away  feeling  as 
if  she  had  been  beaten  all  over. 

The  bright  side  on  which  she  looked  did  not 
include  the  return  to  her  of  little  Gerhardt,  who 
was  duly  detained  for  the  safety  of  the  country. 
Obedient  to  economy,  and  with  a  dim  sense  that 
her  favourite  papers  were  in  some  way  responsible 
for  this,  she  ceased  to  take  them  in,  and  took  in 
sewing  instead.  It  had  become  necessary  to  do 
so,  for  the  allowance  she  received  from  the  gov- 
ernment was  about  a  quarter  of  Gerhardt's 
weekly  earnings.  In  spite  of  its  inadequacy  it 


86  TATTERDEMALION 

was  something,  and  she  felt  she  must  be  grateful. 
But,  curiously  enough,  she  could  not  forget  that 
she  was  English,  and  it  seemed  strange  to  her  that, 
in  addition  to  the  grief  caused  by  separation  from 
her  husband  from  whom  she  had  never  been 
parted  not  even  for  a  night,  she  should  now  be 
compelled  to  work  twice  as  hard  and  eat  half  as 
much  because  that  husband  had  paid  her  coun- 
try the  compliment  of  preferring  it  to  his  own. 
But,  after  all,  many  other  people  had  much  worse 
trouble  to  grieve  over,  so  she  looked  on  the  bright 
side  of  all  this,  especially  on  those  days  once  a 
week  when  alone,  or  accompanied  by  the  little 
Violet,  she  visited  that  Palace  where  she  had 
read  in  her  favourite  journals  to  her  great  com- 
fort that  her  husband  was  treated  like  a  prince. 
Since  he  had  no  money  he  Was  in  what  they  called 
"the  battalion,"  and  their  meetings  were  held  in 
the  bazaar,  where  things  which  "the  princes" 
made  were  exposed  for  sale.  Here  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gerhardt  would  stand  in  front  of  some  doll, 
some  blotting-book,  calendar,  or  walking-stick, 
which  had  been  fashioned  by  one  of  "the  princes." 
There  they  would  hold  each  others'  hands  and 
try  to  imagine  themselves  unsurrounded  by  other 
men  and  wives,  while  the  little  Violet  would  stray 
and  return  to  embrace  her  father's  leg  spasmodi- 
cally. Standing  there,  Mrs.  Gerhardt  would 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  87 

look  on  the  bright  side,  and  explain  to  Gerhardt 
how  well  everything  was  going,  and  he  mustn't 
fret  about  them,  and  how  kind  the  police  were, 
and  how  auntie  asked  after  him,  and  Minnie 
\vould  get  a  prize;  and  how  he  oughtn't  to  mope, 
but  eat  his  food,  and  look  on  the  bright  side. 
And  Gerhardt  would  smile  the  smile  which  went 
into  her  heart  just  like  a  sword,  and  say: 

"All  right,  Dollee.  I'm  getting  on  fine." 
Then,  when  the  whistle  blew  and  he  had  kissed 
little  Violet,  they  would  be  quite  silent,  looking 
at  each  other.  And  she  would  say  in  a  voice  so 
matter-of-fact  that  it  could  have  deceived  no 
one: 

"Well,  I  must  go  now.    Good-bye,  old  man!" 

And  he  would  say: 

"Good-bye,  Dollee.    Kiss  me." 

They  would  kiss,  and  holding  little  Violet's  hand 
very  hard  she  would  hurry  away  in  the  crowd, 
taking  care  not  to  look  back  for  fear  she  might 
suddenly  lose  sight  of  the  bright  side.  But  as 
the  months  went  on,  became  a  year,  eighteen 
months,  two  years,  and  still  she  went  weekly  to 
see  her  "prince"  in  his  Palace,  that  visit  became 
for  her  the  hardest  experience  of  all  her  hard 
week's  doings.  For  she  was  a  realist,  as  well  as 
a  heroine,  and  she  could  see  the  lines  of  despair 
not  only  in  her  man's  heart  but  in  his  face.  For 


88  TATTERDEMALION 

a  long  time  he  had  not  said:  "I'm  getting  on  fine, 
Dollee."  His  face  had  a  beaten  look,  his  figure 
had  wasted,  he  complained  of  his  head. 

"It's  so  noisy,"  he  would  say  constantly;  "oh! 
it's  so  noisy — never  a  quiet  moment — never  alone 
— never — never — never — never.  And  not  enough 
to  eat;  it's  all  reduced  now,  Dollee." 

She  learned  to  smuggle  food  into  his  hands,  but 
it  was  very  little,  for  they  had  not  enough  at 
home  either,  with  the  price  of  living  ever  going 
up  and  her  depleted  income  ever  stationary. 
They  had — her  "man"  told  her — made  a  fuss  in 
the  papers  about  their  being  fed  like  turkey- 
cocks,  while  the  "Huns"  were  sinking  the  ships. 
Gerhardt,  always  a  spare  little  man,  had  lost 
eighteen  pounds.  She,  naturally  well  covered, 
was  getting  thin  herself,  but  that  she  did  not 
notice,  too  busy  all  day  long,  and  too  occupied 
in  thinking  of  her  "man."  To  watch  him  week 
by  week,  more  hopeless,  as  the  months  dragged 
on,  was  an  acute  torture,  to  disguise  which  was 
torture  even  more  acute.  She  had  long  seen  that 
there  was  no  bright  side,  but  if  she  admitted  that 
she  knew  she  would  go  down;  so  she  did  not. 
And  she  carefully  kept  from  Gerhardt  such  mat- 
ters as  David's  overgrowing  his  strength,  because 
she  could  not  feed  him  properly;  the  completely 
bedridden  nature  of  auntie;  and  worse  than 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  89 

these,  the  growing  coldness  and  unkindness  of 
her  neighbours.  Perhaps  they  did  not  mean  to 
be  unkind,  perhaps  they  did,  for  it  was  not  in 
their  nature  to  withstand  the  pressure  of  mass 
sentiment,  the  continual  personal  discomfort  of 
having  to  stand  in  queues,  the  fear  of  air  raids, 
the  cumulative  indignation  caused  by  stories  of 
atrocities  true  and  untrue.  In  spite  of  her  record 
of  kindliness  towards  them  she  became  tarred 
with  the  brush  at  last,  for  her  nerves  had  given 
way  once  or  twice,  and  she  had  said  it  was  a 
shame  to  keep  her  man  like  that,  gettin'  iller  and 
iller,  who  had  never  done  a  thing.  Even  her 
reasonableness — and  she  was  very  reasonable — 
succumbed  to  the  strain  of  that  weekly  sight  of 
him,  till  she  could  no  longer  allow  for  the  diffi- 
culties which  Mrs.  Clirehugh  assured  her  the 
Government  had  to  deal  with.  Then  one  day 
she  used  the  words  "fair  play,"  and  at  once  it 
became  current  that  she  had  "German  sym- 
pathies." From  that  time  on  she  was  somewhat 
doomed.  Those  who  had  received  kindnesses 
from  her  were  foremost  in  showing  her  coldness, 
being  wounded  in  their  self-esteem.  To  have  re- 
ceived little  benefits,  such  as  being  nursed  when 
they  were  sick,  from  one  who  had  "  German  sym- 
pathies" was  too  much  for  the  pride  which  is  in 
every  human  being,  however  humble  an  inhabi- 


90  TATTERDEMALION 

tant  of  Putney.  Mrs.  Gerhardt's  Cockney  spirit 
could  support  this  for  herself,  but  she  could  not 
bear  it  for  her  children.  David  came  home  with 
a  black  eye,  and  would  not  say  why  he  had  got 
it.  Minnie  missed  her  prize  at  school,  though 
she  had  clearly  won  it.  That  was  just  after  the 
last  German  offensive  began;  but  Mrs.  Gerhardt 
refused  to  see  that  this  was  any  reason.  Little 
Violet  twice  put  the  heart-rending  question  to 
her:  "Aren't  I  English,  Mummy?'' 

She  was  answered:  "Yes,  my  dear,  of  course." 

But  the  child  obviously  remained  unconvinced 
in  her  troubled  mind. 

And  then  they  took  David  for  the  British 
army.  It  was  that  which  so  upset  the  apple- 
.  cart  in  Mrs.  Gerhardt  that  she  broke  out  to  her 
last  friend,  Mrs.  Clirehugh: 

"I  do  think  it's  hard,  Eliza.  They  take  his 
father  and  keep  him  there  for  a  dangerous  Hun 
year  after  year  like  that;  and  then  they  take  his 
boy  for  the  army  to  fight  against  him.  And  how 
I'm  to  get  on  without  him  I  don't  know." 

Little  Mrs.  Clirehugh,  who  was  Scotch,  with  a 
Gloucestershire  accent,  replied: 

"Well,  we've  got  to  beat  them.  They're  such 
a  wicked  lot.  I  daresay  it's  'ard  on  you,  but 
we've  got  to  beat  them." 

"But  we  never  did  nothing,"  cried  Mrs.  Ger- 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  91 

hardt;  "it  isn't  us  that's  wicked.  We  never 
wanted  the  war;  it's  nothing  but  ruin  to  him. 
They  did  ought  to  let  me  have  my  man,  or  my 
boy,  one  or  the  other." 

"You  should  'ave  some  feeling  for  the  Govern- 
ment, Dora;  they  'ave  to  do  'ard  things." 

Mrs.  Gerhardt,  with  a  quivering  face,  had 
looked  at  her  friend 

"I  have,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  tone  which  im- 
planted in  Mrs.  Clirehugh's  heart  the  feeling  that 
Dora  was  "bitter." 

She  could  not  forget  it;  and  she  would  flaunt 
her  head  at  any  mention  of  her  former  friend. 
It  was  a  blow  to  Mrs.  Gerhardt,  who  had  now  no 
friends,  except  the  deaf  and  bedridden  aunt,  to 
whom  all  things  were  the  same,  war  or  no  war, 
Germans  or  no  Germans,  so  long  as  she  was  fed. 

About  then  it  was  that  the  tide  turned,  and  the 
Germans  began  to  know  defeat.  Even  Mrs. 
Gerhardt,  who  read  the  papers  no  longer,  learned 
it  daily,  and  her  heart  relaxed;  that  bright  side 
began  to  reappear  a  little.  She  felt  they  could 
not  feel  so  hardly  towards  her  "man"  now  as 
when  they  were  all  in  fear;  and  perhaps  the  war 
would  be  over  before  her  boy  went  out.  But 
Gerhardt  puzzled  her.  He  did  not  brighten  up. 
The  iron  seemed  to  have  entered  his  soul  too 
deeply.  And  one  day,  in  the  bazaar,  passing  an 


92  TATTERDEMALION 

open  doorway,  Mrs.  Gerhardt  had  a  glimpse  of 
why.  There,  stretching  before  her  astonished 
eyes,  was  a  great,  as  it  were,  encampment  of 
brown  blankets,  slung  and  looped  up  anyhow, 
dividing  from  each  other  countless  sordid  beds, 
which  were  almost  touching,  and  a  whiff  of  hud- 
dled humanity  came  out  to  her  keen  nostrils,  and 
a  hum  of  sound  to  her  ears.  So  that  was  where 
her  man  had  dwelt  these  thirty  months,  in  that 
dirty,  crowded,  noisy  place,  with  dirty-looking 
men,  such  as  those  she  could  see  lying  on  the 
beds,  or  crouching  by  the  side  of  them,  over  their 
work.  He  had  kept  neat  somehow,  at  least  on 
the  days  when  she  came  to  see  him — but  that  was 
where  he  lived!  Alone  again  (for  she  no  longer 
brought  the  little  Violet  to  see  her  German 
father),  she  grieved  all  the  way  home.  What- 
ever happened  to  him  now,  even  if  she  got  him 
back,  she  knew  he  would  never  quite  get  over  it. 
And  then  came  the  morning  when  she  came 
out  of  her  door  like  the  other  inhabitants  of 
Putney,  at  sound  of  the  maroons,  thinking  it 
was  an  air  raid;  and,  catching  the  smile  on  the 
toothless  mouth  of  one  of  her  old  neighbours, 
hearing  the  cheers  of  the  boys  in  the  school  round 
the  corner,  knew  that  it  was  Peace.  Her  heart 
overflowed  then,  and,  withdrawing  hastily,  she 
sat  down  on  a  shiny  chair  in  her  little  empty  par- 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  93 

lour.  Her  face  crumpled  suddenly,  the  tears 
came  welling  forth;  she  cried  and  cried,  alone  in 
the  little  cold  room.  She  cried  from  relief  and 
utter  thankfulness.  It  was  over — over  at  last! 
The  long  waiting — the  long  misery — the  yearn- 
ing for  her  "man" — the  grieving  for  all  those  poor 
boys  in  the  mud,  and  the  dreadful  shell  holes, 
and  the  fighting,  the  growing  terror  of  anxiety 
for  her  own  boy — over,  all  over!  Now  they 
would  let  Max  out,  now  David  would  come  back 
from  the  army;  and  people  would  not  be  unkind 
and  spiteful  to  her  and  the  children  any  more ! 

For  all  she  was  a  Cockney,  hers  was  a  simple 
soul,  associating  Peace  with  Good-will.  Drying 
her  tears,  she  stood  up,  and  in  the  little  cheap 
mirror  above  the  empty  grate  looked  at  her 
face.  It  was  lined,  and  she  was  grey;  for  more 
than  two  years  her  man  had  not  seen  her  with- 
out her  hat.  What  ever  would  he  say?  And  she 
rubbed  and  rubbed  her  cheeks,  trying  to  smooth 
them  out.  Then  her  conscience  smote  her,  and 
she  ran  upstairs  to  the  back  bedroom,  where  the 
deaf  aunt  lay.  Taking  up  the  little  amateur  ear- 
trumpet  which  Gerhardt  himself  had  made  for 
"auntie,"  before  he  was  taken  away,  she  bawled 
into  it: 

"Peace,  Auntie;  it's  Peace!  Think  of  that. 
It's  Peace!" 


94  TATTERDEMALION 

"What's  that?"  answered  the  deaf  woman. 

"It's  Peace,  Auntie,  Peace." 

The  deaf  lady  roused  herself  a  little,  and  some 
meaning  came  into  the  lack-lustre  black  eyes  of 
her  long,  leatheiy  face.  "You  don't  say,"  she 
said  in  her  wooden  voice,  "I'm  so  hungry,  Dolly, 
isn't  it  time  for  my  dinner?" 

"I  was  just  goin'  to  get  it,  dearie,"  replied  Mrs. 
Gerhardt,  and  hurried  back  downstairs  with  her 
brain  teeming,  to  make  the  deaf  woman's  bowl 
of  bread,  pepper,  salt,  and  onions. 

All  that  day  and  the  next  and  the  next  she  saw 
the  bright  side  of  things  with  almost  dazzling 
clearness,  waiting  to  visit  her  "prince"  in  his 
Palace.  She  found  him  in  a  strange  and  pitiful 
state  of  nerves.  The  news  had  produced  too  in- 
tense and  varied  emotions  among  those  crowded 
thousands  of  men  buried  away  from  normal  life 
so  long.  She  spent  all  her  hour  and  a  half  trying 
desperately  to  make  him  see  the  bright  side,  but 
he  was  too  full  of  fears  and  doubts,  and  she  went 
away  smiling,  but  utterly  exhausted.  Slowly  in 
the  weeks  which  followed  she  learned  that  nothing 
was  changed.  In  the  fond  hope  that  Gerhardt 
might  be  home  now  any  day,  she  was  taking  care 
that  his  slippers  and  some  clothes  of  David's 
were  ready  for  him,  and  the  hip  bath  handy  for 
him  to  have  a  lovely  hot  wash.  She  had  even 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  95 

bought  a  bottle  of  beer  and  some  of  his  favourite 
pickle,  saving  the  price  out  of  her  own  food,  and 
was  taking  in  the  paper  again,  letting  bygones  be 
bygones.  But  he  did  not  come.  And  soon  the 
paper  informed  her  that  the  English  prisoners 
were  returning — many  in  wretched  state,  poor 
things,  so  that  her  heart  bled  for  them,  and  made 
her  fiercely  angry  with  the  cruel  men  who  had 
treated  them  so;  but  it  informed  her  too,  that  if 
the  paper  had  its  way  no  "Huns"  would  be  toler- 
ated in  this  country  for  the  future.  "Send  them 
all  back!"  were  the  words  it  used.  She  did  not 
realise  at  first  that  this  applied  to  Gerhardt;  but 
when  she  did,  she  dropped  the  journal  as  if  it 
had  been  a  living  coal  of  fire.  Not  let  him  come 
back  to  his  home,  and  family,  not  let  him  stay, 
after  all  they'd  done  to  him,  and  he  never  did 
anything  to  them!  Not  let  him  stay,  but  send 
him  out  to  that  dreadful  country,  which  he  had 
almost  forgotten  in  these  thirty  years,  and  he 
with  an  English  wife  and  children !  In  this  new 
terror  of  utter  dislocation  the  bright  side  so  slipped 
from  her  that  she  was  obliged  to  go  out  into  the 
back  garden  in  the  dark,  where  a  sou'-westerly 
wind  was  driving  the  rain.  There,  lifting  her 
eyes  to  the  evening  sky  she  uttered  a  little  moan. 
It  couldn't  be  true;  and  yet  what  they  said  in  her 
paper  had  always  turned  out  true,  like  the  taking 


96  TATTERDEMALION 

of  Gerhardt  away,  and  the  reduction  of  his  food. 
And  the  face  of  the  gentleman  in  the  building  at 
Whitehall  came  before  her  out  of  the  long  past, 
with  his  lips  tightening,  and  his  words:  "We 
have  to  do  very  hard  things,  Mrs.  Gerhardt." 
Why  had  they  to  do  them?  Her  man  had  never 
done  no  harm  to  no  one !  A  flood,  bitter  as  sea 
water,  surged  in  her,  and  seemed  to  choke  her 
very  being.  Those  gentlemen  in  the  papers — 
why  should  they  go  on  like  that?  Had  they  no 
hearts,  no  eyes  to  see  the  misery  they  brought  to 
humble  folk?  "I  wish  them  nothing  worse  than 
what  they've  brought  to  him  and  me,"  she  thought 
wildly:  "nothing  worse!" 

The  rain  beat  on  her  face,  wetted  her  grey  hair, 
cooled  her  eyeballs.  "I  mustn't  be  spiteful,"  she 
thought;  and  bending  down  in  the  dark  she 
touched  the  glass  of  the  tiny  conservatory  built 
against  the  warm  kitchen  wall,  and  heated  by 
the  cunning  little  hot-water  pipe  her  man  had 
put  there  in  his  old  handy  days.  Under  it  were 
one  little  monthly  rose,  which  still  had  blossoms, 
and  some  straggly  small  chrysanthemums.  She 
had  been  keeping  them  for  the  feast  when  he 
came  home;  but  if  he  wasn't  to  come,  what 
should  she  do?  She  raised  herself.  Above  the 
wet  roofs  sky-rack  was  passing  wild  and  dark, 
but  in  a  little  cleared  space  one  or  two  stars 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  97 

shone  the  brighter  for  the  blackness  below.  "I 
must  look  on  the  bright  side,"  she  thought,  "or 
I  can't  bear  myself."  And  she  went  in  to  cook 
the  porridge  for  the  evening  meal. 

The  winter  passed  for  her  in  the  most  dreadful 
anxiety.  "Repatriate  the  Huns!"  That  cry 
continued  to  spurt  up  in  her  paper  like  a  terrible 
face  seen  in  some  recurrent  nightmare;  and  each 
week  that  she  went  to  visit  Gerhardt  brought 
solid  confirmation  to  her  terror.  He  was  taking 
it  hard,  so  that  sometimes  she  was  afraid  that 
"something"  was  happening  in  him.  This  was 
the  utmost  she  went  towards  defining  what  doc- 
tors might  have  diagnosed  as  incipient  softening 
of  the  brain.  He  seemed  to  dread  the  prospect 
of  being  sent  to  his  native  country. 

"I  couldn't  stick  it,  Dollee,"  he  would  say. 
"What  should  I  do — whatever  should  I  do?  I 
haven't  a  friend.  I  haven't  a  spot  to  go  to.  I 
should  be  lost.  I'm  afraid,  Dollee.  How  could 
you  come  out  there,  you  and  the  children?  I 
couldn't  make  a  living  for  you.  I  couldn't  make 
one  for  myself  now." 

And  she  would  say:  "Cheer  up,  old  man. 
Look  on  the  bright  side.  Think  of  the  others." 
For,  though  those  others  were  not  precisely  the 
bright  side,  the  mental  picture  of  their  sufferings, 
all  those  poor  "princes"  and  their  families, 


98  TATTERDEMALION 

somehow  helped  her  to  bear  her  own.  But  he 
shook  his  head: 

"No;  I  should  never  see  you  again." 

"I'd  follow  you,"  she  answered.  "Never  fear, 
Max,  we'd  work  in  the  fields — me  and  the  chil- 
dren. We'd  get  on  somehow.  Bear  up,  my 
dearie.  It'll  soon  be  over  now.  I'll  stick  to  you, 
Max,  never  you  fear.  But  they  won't  send  you, 
they  never  will." 

And  then,  like  a  lump  of  ice  pressed  on  her 
breast,  came  the  thought:  "But  if  they  do! 
Auntie !  My  boy !  My  girls !  However  shall  I 
manage  if  they  do !" 

Then  long  lists  began  to  appear,  and  in  great 
batches  men  were  shovelled  wholesale  back  to 
the  country  whose  speech  some  of  them  had  well- 
nigh  forgotten.  Little  Gerhardt's  name  had  not 
appeared  yet.  The  lists  were  hung  up  the  day 
after  Mrs.  Gerhardt's  weekly  visit,  but  she  urged 
him  if  his  name  did  appear  to  appeal  against  re- 
patriation. It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
that  she  roused  in  him  the  energy  to  promise. 
"Look  on  the  bright  side,  Max,"  she  implored 
him.  "You've  got  a  son  in  the  British  army; 
they'll  never  send  you.  They  wouldn't  be  so 
cruel.  Never  say  die,  old  man." 

His  name  appeared  but  was  taken  out,  and  the 
matter  hung  again  in  awful  suspense,  while  the 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  99 

evil  face  of  the  recurrent  nightmare  confronted 
Mrs.  Gerhardt  out  of  her  favourite  journal.  She 
read  that  journal  again,  because,  so  far  as  in  her 
gentle  spirit  lay,  she  hated  it.  It  was  slowly 
killing  her  man,  and  all  her  chance  of  future  hap- 
piness; she  hated  it,  and  read  it  every  morning. 
To  the  monthly  rose  and  straggly  little  brown- 
red  chrysanthemums  in  the  tiny  hothouse  there 
had  succeeded  spring  flowers — a  few  hardy  Jan- 
uary snowdrops,  and  one  by  one  blue  scillas,  and 
the  little  pale  daffodils  called  "angels'  tears." 

Peace  tarried,  but  the  flowers  came  up  long 
before  their  tune  in  their  tiny  hothouse  against 
the  kitchen  flue.  And  then  one  wonderful  day 
there  came  to  Mrs.  Gerhardt  a  strange  letter, 
announcing  that  Gerhardt  was  coming  home. 
He  would  not  be  .sent  to  Germany — he  was. 
coming  home !  To-day,  that  very  day — any  mo- 
ment he  might  be  with  her.  When  she  received 
it,  who  had  long  received  no  letters  save  the 
weekly  letters  of  her  boy  still  in  the  army,  she 
was  spreading  margarine  on  auntie's  bread  for 
breakfast,  and,  moved  beyond  all  control,  she 
spread  it  thick,  wickedly,  wastefully  thick,  then 
dropped  the  knife,  sobbed,  laughed,  clasped  her 
hands  on  her  breast,  and  without  rhyme  or  reason,, 
began  singing:  "Hark!  the  herald  angels  sing."" 
The  girls  had  gone  to  school  already,  auntie  in 


100  TATTERDEMALION 

the  room  above  could  not  hear  her,  no  one  heard 
her,  nor  saw  her  drop  suddenly  into  the  wooden 
chair,  and,  with  her  bare  arms  stretched  out  one 
on  either  side  of  the  plate  of  bread  and  mar- 
garine, cry  her  heart  out  against  the  clean  white 
table.  Coming  home,  coming  home,  coming 
home !  The  bright  side !  The  little  white  stars ! 
It  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  she  could 
trust  herself  to  answer  the  knocking  on  the  floor, 
which  meant  that  "auntie"  was  missing  her 
breakfast.  Hastily  she  made  the  tea  and  went 
up  with  it  and  the  bread  and  margarine.  The 
woman's  dim  long  face  gleamed  greedily  when 
she  saw  how  thick  the  margarine  was  spread; 
but  little  Mrs.  Gerhardt  said  no  word  of  the 
reason  for  that  feast.  She  just  watched  her  only 
friend  eating  it,  while  a  little  moisture  still  trickled 
out  from  her  big  eyes  on  to  her  flushed  cheeks, 
and  the  words  still  hummed  in  her  brain: 

"Peace  on  earth  and  mercy  mild, 
Jesus  Christ  a  little  child." 

Then,  still  speaking  no  word,  she  ran  out  and 
put  clean  sheets  on  her  and  her  man's  bed.  She 
was  on  wires,  she  could  not  keep  still,  and  all  the 
morning  she  polished,  polished.  About  noon  she 
went  out  into  her  garden,  and  from  under  the 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  101 

glass  plucked  every  flower  that  grew  there — 
snowdrops,  scillas,  "angels'  tears,"  quite  two 
dozen  blossoms.  She  brought  them  into  the 
little  parlour  and  opened  its  window  wide.  The 
sun  was  shining,  and  fell  on  the  flowers  strewn  on 
the  table,  ready  to  be  made  into  the  nosegay  of 
triumphant  happiness.  While  she  stood  finger- 
ing them,  delicately  breaking  half  an  inch  off 
their  stalks  so  that  they  should  last  the  longer 
in  water,  she  became  conscious  of  someone  on 
the  pavement  outside  the  window,  and  looking 
up  saw  Mrs.  Clirehugh.  The  past,  the  sense  of 
having  been  deserted  by  her  friends,  left  her,  and 
she  called  out: 

"Come  in,  Eliza;  look  at  my  flowers!" 
Mrs.  Clirehugh  came  in;  she  was  in  black,  her 
cheekbones  higher,  her  hair  looser,  her  eyes 
bigger.  Mrs.  Gerhardt  saw  tears  starting  from 
those  eyes,  wetting  those  high  cheekbones,  and 
cried  out: 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  dear?" 
Mrs.  Clirehugh  choked.     "My  baby!" 
Mrs.  Gerhardt  dropped  an  "angels'  tear,"  and 
went  up  to  her. 

"Whatever's  happened?"  she  cried. 
"Dead!"  replied  Mrs.  Clirehugh.    "Dead  o' 
the  influenza.     'E's  to  be  buried  to-day.     I  can't 
— I  can't — I  can't — "    Wild  choking  stopped  her 


102  TATTERDEMALION 

utterance.  Mrs.  Gerhardt  put  an  arm  round  her 
and  drew  her  head  on  to  her  shoulder. 

"I  can't — I  can't — "  sobbed  Mrs.  Clirehugh; 
"I  can't  find  any  flowers.  It's  seein'  yours  made 
me  cry." 

"There,  there!"  cried  Mrs.  Gerhardt.  "Have 
them.  I'm  sure  you're  welcome,  dearie.  Have 
them — I'm  so  sorry!" 

"I  don't  know,"  choked  Mrs.  Clirehugh,  "I 
'aven't  deserved  them."  Mrs.  Gerhardt  gathered 
up  the  flowers. 

"Take  them,"  she  said.  "I  couldn't  think  of 
it.  Your  poor  little  baby.  Take  them !  There, 
there,  he's  spared  a  lot  of  trouble.  You  must 
look  on  the  bright  side,  dearie." 

Mrs.  Clirehugh  tossed  up  her  head. 

"You're  an  angel,  that's  what  you  are!"  she 
said,  and  grasping  the  flowers  she  hurried  out,  a 
little  black  figure  passing  the  window  in  the 
sunlight. 

Mrs.  Gerhardt  stood  above  the  emptied  table, 
thinking:  "Poor  dear — I'm  glad  she  had  the 
flowers.  It  was  a  mercy  I  didn't  call  out  that 
Max  was  coming ! "  And  from  the  floor  she  picked 
up  one  "angels'  tear"  she  had  dropped,  and  set 
it  in  a  glass  of  water,  where  the  sunlight  fell. 
She  was  still  gazing  at  it,  pale,  slender,  lonely  in 
that  coarse  tumbler,  when  she  heard  a  knock  on 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE  103 

the  parlour  door,  and  went  to  open  it.  There 
stood  her  man,  with  a  large  brown-paper  parcel 
in  his  hand.  He  stood  quite  still,  his  head  a 
little  down,  the  face  very  grey.  She  cried  out; 
"Max!"  but  the  thought  flashed  through  her: 
"He  knocked  on  the  door!  It's  his  door — he 
knocked  on  the  door!" 

"Dollee?"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  question  in 
his  voice. 

She  threw  her  arms  round  him,  drew  him  into 
the  room,  and  shutting  the  door,  looked  hard 
into  his  face.  Yes,  it  was  his  face,  but  in  the 
eyes  something  wandered — lit  up,  went  out,  lit  up. 

"Dollee,"  he  said  again,  and  clutched  her  hand. 

She  strained  him  to  her  with  a  sob. 

"I'm  not  well,  Dollee,"  he  murmured. 

"No,  of  course  not,  my  dearie  man;  but  you'll 
soon  be  all  right  now — home  again  with  me. 
Cheer  up,  cheer  up !" 

"I'm  not  well,"  he  said  again. 

She  caught  the  parcel  out  of  his  hand,  and 
taking  the  "angels'  tear"  from  the  tumbler, 
fixed  it  in  his  coat. 

"Here's  a  spring  flower  for  you,  Max;  out  of 
your  own  little  hothouse.  You're  home  again; 
home  again,  my  dearie.  Auntie's  upstairs,  and 
the  girls'll  be  coming  soon.  And  we'll  have 
dinner." 


104  TATTERDEMALION 

"I'm  not  well,  Dollee,"  he  said. 

Terrified  by  that  reiteration,  she  drew  him 
down  on  the  little  horsehair  sofa,  and  sat  on  his 
knee.  "You're  home,  Max,  kiss  me.  There's 
my  man !"  and  she  rocked  him  to  and  fro  against 
her,  yearning  yet  fearing  to  look  into  his  face 
and  see  that  "something"  wander  there — light 
up,  go  out,  light  up.  "Look,  dearie,"  she  said, 
"I've  got  some  beer  for  you.  You'd  like  a  glass 
of  beer?" 

He  made  a  motion  of  his  lips,  a  sound  that 
was  like  the  ghost  of  a  smack.  It  terrified  her, 
so  little  life  was  there  in  it. 

He  clutched  her  close,  and  repeated  feebly: 

"Yes,  all  right  in  a  day  or  two.  They  let  me 
come — I'm  not  well,  Dollee."  He  touched  his 
head. 

Straining  him  to  her,  rocking  him,  she  mur- 
mured over  and  over  again,  like  a  cat  purring  to 
its  kitten: 

"It's  all  right,  my  dearie — soon  be  well — soon 
be  well !  We  must  look  on  the  bright  side — My 
man!" 


V 
"CAFARD" 

The  soldier  Jean  Liotard  lay,  face  to  the  earth, 
by  the  bank  of  the  river  Dr6me.  He  lay  where 
the  grass  and  trees  ended,  and  between  him  and 
the  shrivelled  green  current  was  much  sandy 
foreshore,  for  summer  was  at  height,  and  the 
snows  had  long  finished  melting  and  passing  down. 
The  burning  sun  had  sucked  up  all  moisture,  the 
earth  was  parched,  but  to-day  a  cool  breeze  blew, 
willow  and  aspen  leaves  were  fluttering  and  hiss- 
ing as  if  millions  of  tiny  kisses  were  being  given 
up  there;  and  a  few  swathes  of  white  cloud  were 
drawn,  it  seemed — not  driven — along  the  blue. 
The  soldier  Jean  Liotard  had  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  ground,  where  was  nothing  to  see  but  a  few 
dry  herbs.  He  had  "cafard,"  for  he  was  due  to 
leave  the  hospital  to-morrow  and  go  up  before 
the  military  authorities,  for  "prolongation." 
There  he  would  answer  perfunctory  questions, 
and  be  told  at  once:  Au  depdt ;  or  have  to  lie 
naked  before  them  that  some  "major"  might 
prod  his  ribs,  to  find  out  whether  his  heart,  dis- 
placed by  shell-shock,  had  gone  back  sufficiently 

105 


106  TATTERDEMALION 

to  normal  position.  •  He  had  received  one  "pro- 
longation" and  so,  wherever  his  heart  now  was, 
he  felt  sure  he  would  not  get  another.  "Au 
depdt"  was  the  fate  before  him,  fixed  as  that  river 
flowing  down  to  its  death  in  the  sea.  He  had 
"cafard" — the  little  black  beetle  in  the  brain, 
which  gnaws  and  eats  and  destroys  all  hope  and 
heaven  in  a  man.  It  had  been  working  at  him 
all  last  week,  and  now  he  was  at  a  monstrous 
depth  of  evil  and  despair.  To  begin  again  the 
cursed  barrack-round,  the  driven  life,  until  in  a 
month  perhaps,  packed  like  bleating  sheep,  in 
the  troop-tram,  he  made  that  journey  to  the 
fighting  line  again — "A  la  hachette — a  la  hachette  !" 
He  had  stripped  off  his  red  flannel  jacket,  and 
lay  with  shirt  opened  to  the  waist,  to  get  the 
breeze  against  his  heart.  In  his  brown  good- 
looking  face  the  hazel  eyes,  which  in  these  three 
God-deserted  years  had  acquired  a  sort  of  startled 
gloom,  stared  out  like  a  dog's,  rather  prominent, 
seeing  only  the  thoughts  within  him — thoughts 
and  images  swirling  round  and  round  in  a  dark 
whirlpool,  drawing  his  whole  being  deeper  and 
deeper.  He  was  unconscious  of  all  the  summer 
hum  and  rustle — the  cooing  of  the  dove  up  in 
that  willow  tree,  the  winged  enamelled  fairies 
floating  past,  the  chirr  of  the  cicadas,  that  little 
brown  lizard  among  the  pebbles,  almost  within 


"CAFARD"  107 

reach,  seeming  to  listen  to  the  beating  of  summer's 
heart  so  motionless  it  lay;  unconscious,  as  though 
in  verity  he  were  again  deep  in  some  stifling 
trench,  with  German  shells  whining  over  him, 
and  the  smell  of  muck  and  blood  making  fcetid 
the  air.  He  was  in  the  mood  which  curses  God 
and  dies;  for  he  was  devout — a  Catholic,  and 
still  went  to  Mass.  And  God  had  betrayed  the 
earth,  and  Jean  Liotard.  All  the  enormities  he 
had  seen  in  his  two  years  at  the  front — the  mouth- 
less  mangled  faces,  the  human  ribs  whence  rats 
would  steal;  the  frenzied  tortured  horses,  with 
leg  or  quarter  rent  away,  still  living;  the  rotted 
farms,  the  dazed  and  hopeless  peasants;  his  in- 
numerable suffering  comrades;  the  desert  of  no- 
man's  land;  and  all  the  thunder  and  moaning  of 
war;  and  the  reek  and  the  freezing  of  war;  and 
the  driving — the  callous  perpetual  driving,  by 
some  great  Force  which  shovelled  warm  human 
hearts  and  bodies,  warm  human  hopes  and  loves 
by  the  million  into  the  furnace;  and  over  all,  dark 
sky  without  a  break,  without  a  gleam  of  blue,  or 
lift  anywhere — all  this  enclosed  him,  lying  in  the 
golden  heat,  so  that  not  a  glimmer  of  life  or  hope 
could  get  at  him.  Back  into  it  all  again !  Back 
into  it,  he  who  had  been  through  forty  times  the 
hell  that  the  "majors"  ever  endured,  five  hundred 
times  the  hell  ever  glimpsed  at  by  those  d&putes, 


108  TATTERDEMALION 

safe  with  their  fat  salaries,  and  their  gabble  about 
victory  and  the  lost  provinces,  and  the  future  of 
the  world — the  Canaille!  Let  them  allow  the 
soldiers,  whose  lives  they  spent  like  water — "les 
camarades"  on  both  sides — poor  devils  who  bled, 
and  froze,  and  starved,  and  sweated — let  them 
suffer  these  to  make  the  peace!  Ah!  What  a 
peace  that  would  be — its  first  condition,  all  the 
sacred  politicians  and  pressmen  hanging  in  rows 
in  every  country;  the  mouth  fighters,  the  pen 
fighters,  the  fighters  with  other  men's  blood! 
Those  comfortable  citizens  would  never  rest  till 
there  was  not  a  young  man  with  whole  limbs  left 
in  France!  Had  he  not  killed  enough  Boches, 
that  they  might  leave  him  and  his  tired  heart  in 
peace?  He  thought  of  his  first  charge;  of  how 
queer  and  soft  that  Boche  body  felt  when  his 
bayonet  went  through;  and  another,  and  another. 
Ah!  he  had  "joliment"  done  his  duty  that  day! 
And  something  wrenched  at  his  ribs.  They  were 
only  Boches,  but  their  wives  and  children,  their 
mothers — faces  questioning,  faces  pleading  for 
them — pleading  with  whom?  Ah!  Not  with 
him!  Who  was  he  that  had  taken  those  lives, 
and  others  since,  but  a  poor  devil  without  a  life 
himself,  without  the  right  to  breathe  or  move 
except  to  the  orders  of  a  Force  which  had  no 
mind,  which  had  no  heart,  had  nothing  but  a 


"CAFARD"  109 

blind  will  to  go  on,  it  knew  not  why.  If  only 
he  survived — it  was  not  possible — but  if  only  he 
survived,  and  with  his  millions  of  comrades  could 
come  back  and  hold  the  reckoning !  Some  scare- 
the-crows  then  would  waggle  in  the  wind.  The 
butterflies  would  perch  on  a  few  mouths  empty 
at  last;  the  flies  enjoy  a  few  silent  tongues !  Then 
slowly  his  fierce  unreasoning  rancour  vanished  into 
a  mere  awful  pity  for  himself.  Was  a  fellow  never 
again  to  look  at  the  sky,  and  the  good  soil,  the 
fruit,  the  wheat,  without  this  dreadful  black 
cloud  above  him,  never  again  make  love  among 
the  trees,  or  saunter  down  a  lighted  boulevard, 
or  sit  before  a  cafe*,  never  again  attend  Mass, 
without  this  black  dog  of  disgust  and  dread  sit- 
ting on  his  shoulders,  riding  him  to  death? 
Angels  of  pity !  Was  there  never  to  be  an  end? 
One  was  going  mad  under  it — yes,  mad!  And 
the  face  of  his  mother  came  before  him,  as  he  had 
seen  her  last,  just  three  years  ago,  when  he  left 
his  home  in  the  now  invaded  country,  to  join  his 
regiment — his  mother  who,  with  all  his  family, 
was  in  the  power  of  the  Boche.  He  had  gone 
gaily,  and  she  had  stood  like  stone,  her  hand  held 
over  her  eyes,  in  the  sunlight,  watching  him  while 
the  train  ran  out.  Usually  the  thought  of  the 
cursed  Boches  holding  in  their  heavy  hands  all 
that  was  dear  to  him,  was  enough  to  sweep  his 


110  TATTERDEMALION 

soul  to  a  clear,  definite  hate,  which  made  all  this 
nightmare  of  war  seem  natural,  and  even  right; 
but  now  it  was  not  enough — he  had  "cafard." 
He  turned  on  his  back.  The  sky  above  the 
mountains  might  have  been  black  for  all  the  joy 
its  blue  gave  him.  The  butterflies,  those  drift- 
ing flakes  of  joy,  passed  unseen.  He  was  think- 
ing: No  rest,  no  end,  except  by  walking  over 
bodies,  dead,  mangled  bodies  of  poor  devils  like 
himself,  poor  hunted  devils,  who  wanted  nothing 
but  never  to  lift  a  hand  in  combat  again  so  long 
as  they  lived,  who  wanted — as  he  wanted — noth- 
ing but  laughter  and  love  and  rest !  Quelle  vie  ! 
A  carnival  of  leaping  demonry!  A  dream — un- 
utterably bad!  "And  when  I  go  back  to  it 
all,"  he  thought,  "I  shall  go  all  shaven  and  smart, 
and  wave  my  hand  as  if  I  were  going  to  a  wed- 
ding, as  we  all  do.  Vive  la  France!  Ah!  what 
mockery!  Can't  a  poor  devil  have  a  dreamless 
sleep!"  He  closed  his  eyes,  but  the  sun  struck 
hot  on  them  through  the  lids,  and  he  turned 
over  on  his  face  again,  and  looked  longingly  at 
the  river — they  said  it  was  deep  in  mid-stream; 
it  still  ran  fast  there !  What  was  that  down  by 
the  water?  Was  he  really  mad?  And  he  ut- 
tered a  queer  laugh.  There  was  his  black  dog 
— the  black  dog  off  his  shoulders,  the  black  dog 
which  rode  him,  yea,  which  had  become  his 


"CAFARD"  111 

very  self,  just  going  to  wade  in !    And  he  called 
out: 

"H6!  k  copain!"  It  was  not  his  dog,  for  it 
stopped  drinking,  tucked  its  tail  in,  and  cowered 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Then  it  came  from 
the  water,  and  sat  down  on  its  base  among  the 
stones,  and  looked  at  him.  A  real  dog  was  it? 
What  a  guy!  What  a  thin  wretch  of  a  little 
black  dog!  It  sat  and  stared — a  mongrel  who 
might  once  have  been  pretty.  It  stared  at  Jean 
Liotard  with  the  pathetic  gaze  of  a  dog  so  thin 
and  hungry  that  it  earnestly  desires  to  go  to  men 
and  get  fed  once  more,  but  has  been  so  kicked 
and  beaten  that  it  dare  not.  It  seemed  held  in 
suspense  by  the  equal  overmastering  impulses, 
fear  and  hunger.  And  Jean  Liotard  stared  back. 
The  lost,  as  it  were  despairing  look  of  the  dog 
began  to  penetrate  his  brain.  He  held  out  his 
hand  and  said:  "  Viens  /"  But  at  the  sound  the 
little  dog  only  squirmed  away  a  few  paces,  then 
again  sat  down,  and  resumed  its  stare.  Again 
Jean  Liotard  uttered  that  queer  laugh.  If  the 
good  God  were  to  hold  out  his  hand  and  say  to 
him:  "  Viens  /"  he  would  do  exactly  as  that  little 
beast;  he  would  not  come,  not  he !  What  was  he 
too  but  a  starved  and  beaten  dog — a  driven 
wretch,  kicked  to  hell !  And  again,  as  if  experi- 
menting with  himself,  he  held  out  his  hand  and 


112  TATTERDEMALION 

said:  "Viens!"  and  again  the  beast  squirmed  a 
little  further  away,  and  again  sat  down  and 
stared.  Jean  Liotard  lost  patience.  His  head 
drooped  till  his  forehead  touched  the  ground.  He 
smelt  the  parched  herbs,  and  a  faint  sensation  of 
comfort  stole  through  his  nerves.  He  lay  un- 
moving,  trying  to  fancy  himself  dead  and  out  of 
it  all.  The  hum  of  summer,  the  smell  of  grasses, 
the  caress  of  the  breeze  going  over !  He  pressed 
the  palms  of  his  outstretched  hands  on  the  warm 
soil,  as  one  might  on  a  woman's  breast.  If  only 
it  were  really  death,  how  much  better  than  life 
in  this  butcher's  shop !  But  death,  his  death  was 
waiting  for  him  away  over  there,  under  the  moan- 
ing shells,  under  the  whining  bullets,  at  the  end 
of  a  steel  prong — &  mangled,  foetid  death.  Death 
— his  death,  had  no  sweet  scent,  and  no  caress — 
save  the  kisses  of  rats  and  crows.  Life  and 
Death  what  were  they?  Nothing  but  the  prey- 
ing of  creatures  the  one  on  the  other — nothing  but 
that;  and  love,  the  blind  instinct  which  made 
these  birds  and  beasts  of  prey.  Bon  sang  de  bon 
sang  I  The  Christ  hid  his  head  finely  nowadays ! 
That  cross  up  there  on  the  mountain  top,  with 
the  sun  gleaming  on  it — they  had  been  right  to 
put  it  up  where  no  man  lived,  and  not  even  a 
dog  roamed,  to  be  pitied!  "Fairy  tales,  fairy 
tales,"  he  thought;  "those  who  drive  and  those 


"CAFARD"  113 

who  are  driven,  those  who  eat  and  those  who  are 
eaten — we  are  all  poor  devils  together.  There 
is  no  pity,  no  God!"  And  the  flies  drummed 
their  wings  above  him.  And  the  sun,  boring  into 
his  spine  through  his  thin  shirt,  made  him  reach 
for  his  jacket.  There  was  the  little  dog,  still, 
sitting  on  its  base,  twenty  yards  away.  It  cow- 
ered and  dropped  its  ears  when  he  moved;  and  he 
thought  "Poor  beast!  Someone  has  been  doing 
the  devil's  work  on  you,  not  badly ! "  There  were 
some  biscuits  in  the  pocket  of  his  jacket,  and  he 
held  one  out.  The  dog  shivered,  and  its  thin 
pink  tongue  lolled  out,  panting  with  desire,  and 
fear.  Jean  Liotard  tossed  the  biscuit  gently 
about  half  way.  The  dog  cowered  back  a  step 
or  two,  crept  forward  three,  and  again  squatted. 
Then  very  gradually  it  crept  up  to  the  biscuit, 
bolted  it,  and  regained  its  distance.  The  sol- 
dier took  out  another.  This  time  he  threw  it 
five  paces  only  in  front  of  him.  Again  the  little 
beast  cowered,  slunk  forward,  seized  the  biscuit, 
devoured  it;  but  this  time  it  only  recoiled  a  pace 
or  two,  and  seemed,  with  panting  mouth  and 
faint  wagging  of  the  tail,  to  beg  for  more.  Jean 
Liotard  held  a  third  biscuit  as  far  out  in  front 
of  him  as  he  could,  and  waited.  The  creature 
crept  forward  and  squatted  just  out  of  reach. 
There  it  sat,  with  saliva  dripping  from  its  mouth; 


114  TATTERDEMALION 

seemingly  it  could  not  make  up  its  mind  to  that 
awful  venture.  The  soldier  sat  motionless;  his 
outstretched  hand  began  to  tire;  but  he  did  not 
budge — he  meant  to  conquer  its  fear.  At  last  it 
snatched  the  biscuit.  Jean  Liotard  instantly 
held  out  a  fourth.  That  too  was  snatched,  but 
at  the  fifth  he  was  able  to  touch  the  dog.  It 
cowered  almost  into  the  ground  at  touch  of  his 
fingers,  and  then  lay,  still  trembling  violently, 
while  the  soldier  continued  to  stroke  its  head 
and  ears.  And  suddenly  his  heart  gave  a  twitter, 
the  creature  had  licked  his  hand.  He  took  out 
his  last  biscuit,  broke  it  up,  and  fed  the  dog 
slowly  with  the  bits,  talking  all  the  time;  when 
the  last  crumb  was  gone  he  continued  to  mur- 
mur and  crumple  its  ears  softly.  He  had  be- 
come aware  of  something  happening  within  the 
dog — something  in  the  nature  of  conversion,  as 
if  it  were  saying:  "0  my  master,  my  new  master 
— I  worship,  I  love  you!"  The  creature  came 
gradually  closer,  quite  close;  then  put  up  its 
sharp  black  nose  and  began  to  lick  his  face.  Its 
little  hot  rough  tongue  licked  and  licked,  and 
with  each  lick  the  soldier's  heart  relaxed,  just  as 
if  the  licks  were  being  given  there,  and  something 
licked  away.  He  put  his  arms  round  the  thin 
body,  and  hugged  it,  and  still  the  creature  went 
on  feverishly  licking  at  his  face,  and  neck,  and 


"CAFARD"  115 

chest,  as  if  trying  to  creep  inside  him.  The  sun 
poured  down,  the  lizards  rustled  and  whisked 
among  the  pebbles;  the  kissing  never  ceased  up 
there  among  the  willow  and  aspen  leaves,  and 
every  kind  of  flying  thing  went  past  drumming 
its  wings.  There  was  no  change  in  the  summer 
afternoon.  God  might  not  be  there,  but  Pity 
had  come  back;  Jean  Liotard  no  longer  had 
"cqfqrd"  He  put  the  little  dog  gently  off  his 
lap,  got  up,  and  stretched  himself.  "Voyons, 
mon  brave,  faut  oiler  vvir  les  copains !  Tu  es  A 
moi"  The  little  dog  stood  up  on  its  hind  legs, 
scratching  with  its  forepaws  at  the  soldier's 
thigh,  as  if  trying  to  get  at  his  face  again;  as  if 
begging  not  to  be  left;  and  its  tail  waved  fever- 
ishly, half  in  petition,  half  in  rapture.  The  sol- 
dier caught  the  paws,  set  them  down,  and  turned 
his  face  for  home,  making  the  noises  that  a  man 
makes  to  his  dog;  and  the  little  dog  followed, 
close  as  he  could  get  to  those  moving  ankles, 
lifting  his  snout,  and  panting  with  anxiety  and 
love. 

1917. 


VI 
RECORDED 

Just  as  the  train  was  going  out  the  compart- 
ment was  stormed  by  a  figure  in  khaki,  with  a 
rifle,  a  bad  cold,  a  wife,  a  basket,  a  small  bundle, 
and  two  babies.  Setting  his  rifle  down  in  the 
corner,  he  said: 

"Didn't  think  we  shud  ever  'a  caught  it !" 

His  lean  face  was  streaming  with  perspiration, 
and  when  he  took  off  his  overcoat  there  rose  the 
sweetish  sourish  scent  of  a  hot  goatskin  waist- 
coat. It  reached  below  his  waist,  and  would 
have  kept  cold  out  from  a  man  standing  in  a 
blizzard,  and  he  had  been  carrying  a  baby,  a 
rifle,  a  bundle,  a  basket,  and  running,  on  a  warm- 
ish day. 

"Grand  things,  these,"  he  said,  and  took  it 
off.  He  also  took  off  his  cap,  and  sat  down  with 
the  elder  baby  in  a  howling  draught. 

"Proper  cold  I've  caught  comin'  over  here," 
he  added. 

His  wife,  quite  a  girl,  broad-faced,  fresh-col- 
oured, with  small  grey  eyes  and  a  wonderfully 

117 


118  TATTERDEMALION 

placid,  comely  face,  on  which  a  faint  shadow 
seemed  printed,  sat  beside  him  with  the  younger 
baby,  a  real  hairless  one,  as  could  be  seen  when 
its  white  knitted  cap  slipped.  The  elder  baby, 
perhaps  two  years  old,  began  whimpering  a  little. 
He  jigged  it  gently,  and  said: 

"We  'ad  a  lot  o'  trouble  wi'  this  one  yesterday. 
The  Doctor  didn't  think  'er  fit  to  travel;  but  I 
got  to  see  the  old  people  down  there,  before  I 
go  back  out  across.  Come  over  Sunday  night — 
only  got  a  week's  leave.  So  here  we  are,"  and 
he  laughed. 

"What  is  your  corps?"  I  asked. 

"Engineers." 

"Join  since  the  war?" 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  to  say:  What  a  question ! 

"Twelve  years'  service.  Been  everywhere — 
India,  South  Africa,  Egypt.  Come  over  to  the 
front  from  Egypt." 

"Where?    Ypres?" 

"Beg  pardon?    Wipers?    No,  Labassy." 

"Rough  time?" 

He  winked.    "Proper  rough  time." 

He  looked  straight  at  me,  and  his  eyes — Celtic- 
grey,  with  a  good  deal  of  light  in  them — stared, 
wide  and  fixed,  at  things  beyond  me,  as  only  do 
the  eyes  of  those  who  have  seen  much  death. 
There  was  a  sort  of  burnt-gunpowder  look  about 


RECORDED  119 

their  rims  and  lashes,  and  a  fixity  that  nothing 
could  have  stared  down. 

"The  Kazer  he  says  it'll  all  be  over  by  April !" 
He  laughed,  abandoning  the  whole  of  him  to  en- 
joyment of  that  joke. 

He  was  thin  as  a  rail;  his  head  with  its  thick 
brown  hair  was  narrow,  his  face  narrowish  too. 
He  had  irregular  ears,  and  no  feature  that  could 
be  called  good,  but  his  expression  was  utterly 
genuine  and  unconscious  of  itself.  When  he  sat 
quiet  his  face  would  be  held  a  little  down,  his 
eyes  would  be  looking  at  something — or  was  it 
at  nothing? — far-off,  in  a  kind  of  frowning  dream. 
But  if  he  glanced  at  his  babies  his  rather  thick 
mouth  became  all  smiles,  and  he  would  make  a 
remark  to  his  wife  about  them.  Once  or  twice 
she  looked  at  him  softly,  but  I  could  never  catch 
him  responding  to  that;  his  life  was  rather  fuller 
than  hers  just  now.  Presently  she  took  from  him 
the  elder  baby  which,  whimpering  again,  was 
quieted  at  once  by  her  broad  placidity.  The 
younger  baby  she  passed  to  him;  and,  having 
secured  it  on  his  knee,  he  said: 

"This  one's  a  proper  little  gem;  never  makes  a 
sound;  she's  a  proper  little  gem.  Never  cude 
stand  hearin'  a  baby  cry."  It  certainly  was  an 
admirable  baby,  whether  her  little  garments  were 
lifted  so  that  you  saw  portions  of  her — scarlet 


120  TATTERDEMALION 

from  being  held  too  tight,  whether  the  shawl 
was  wrapped  over  her  too  much  or  too  little,  or 
her  little  knitted  trousers  seemed  about  to  fall 
off.  For  both  these  babies  were  elegantly  dressed, 
and  so  was  the  mother,  with  a  small  blue  hat  and  a 
large-checked  blouse  over  her  broad  bosom,  and 
a  blue  skirt  all  crumbs  and  baby.  It  was  pleasant 
to  see  that  he  had  ceased  to  stream  with  per- 
spiration now,  and  some  one  at  the  other  end  of 
the  carriage  having  closed  the  window,  he  and 
the  babies  no  longer  sat  in  a  howling  draught — 
not  that  they  had  ever  noticed  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said  suddenly,  "proper  rough  tune 
we  'ad  of  it  at  first.  Terrible — yu  cude  'ardly 
stick  it.  We  Engineers  'ad  the  worst  of  it,  tu. 
But  must  laugh,  you  know;  if  yu're  goin'  to  cop 
it  next  minute — must  laugh!"  And  he  did. 
But  his  eyes  didn't  quite  lose  that  stare. 

"How  did  you  feel  the  first  day  under  fire?" 

He  closed  one  eye  and  shook  his  head. 

"Not  very  grand — not  very  grand — not  for 
two  or  three  days.  Soon  get  used  to  it,  though. 
Only  things  I  don't  care  about  now  are  those 
Jack  Johnsons.  Long  Toms  out  in  South  Africa 
— now  Jack  Johnsons — funny  names — "  and  he 
went  into  a  roar.  Then  leaning  forward  and,  to 
make  sure  of  one's  attention,  sawing  the  air  with 
a  hand  that  held  perhaps  the  longest  used  hand- 


RECORDED  121 

kerchief  ever  seen,  "I  seen  'em  make  a  hole  where 
you  could  'ave  put  two  'underd  and  fifty  horses. 
Don't  think  I  shall  ever  get  to  like  'em.  Yu 
don't  take  no  notice  o'  rifle  fire  after  a  little — not 
a  bit  o'  notice.  I  was  out  once  with  a  sapper 
and  two  o'  the  Devons,  fixin'  up  barbed  wire — 
bullets  strikin'  everywhere  just  like  rain.  One 
o'  the  Devons,  he  was  sittin'  on  a  biscuit-tin, 
singin':  'The  fields  were  white  wi'  daisies' — 
singing.  All  of  a  sudden  he  goes  like  this — " 
And  giving  a  queer  dull  "sumph"  of  a  sound,  he 
jerked  his  body  limp  towards  his  knees — "  Gone ! 
Dig  a  hole,  put  'im  in.  Your  turn  to-morrow, 
perhaps.  Pals  an*  all.  Yu  get  so  as  yu  don't 
take  no  notice." 

On  the  face  of  the  broad,  placid  girl  with  the 
baby  against  her  breast  the  shadow  seemed 
printed  a  little  deeper,  but  she  did  not  wince. 
The  tiny  baby  on  his  knees  woke  up  and  crowed 
faintly.  He  smiled. 

"Since  I  been  out  there,  I've  often  wished  I 
was  a  little  'un  again,  like  this.  Well,  I  made  up 
my  mind  when  first  I  went  for  a  soldier,  that  I'd 
like  to  'ave  a  medal  out  of  it  some  day.  Now 
I'll  get  it,  if  they  don't  get  me!"  and  he  laughed 
again:  "Ah!  I've  'ad  some  good  times,  an'  I've 
'ad  some  bad  times " 

"But  never  a  time  like  this?" 


122  TATTERDEMALION 

"Yes,  I  reckon  this  has  about  put  the  top  hat 
on  it !"  and  he  nodded  his  head  above  the  baby's. 
"About  put  the  top  hat  on!  Oh!  I've  seen 
things — enough  to  make  your  'eart  bleed.  I've 
seen  a  lot  of  them  country  people.  Cruel  it  is ! 
Women,  old  men,  little  children,  'armless  people 
— enough  to  make  your  'eart  bleed.  I  used  to 
think  of  the  folk  over  'ere.  Don't  think  English 
women  Jd  stand  what  the  French  and  Belgian 
women  do.  Those  poor  women  over  there — 
wonderful  they  are.  There  yu'll  see  'em  sittin' 
outside  their  'omes  just  a  heap  o'  ruins — clingin' 
to  'em.  Wonderful  brave  and  patient — make 
your  'eart  bleed  to  see  'em.  Things  I've  seen! 
There's  some  proper  brutes  among  the  Germans 
— must  be.  Yu  don't  feel  very  kind  to  'em  when 
yu've  seen  what  I've  seen.  We  'ave  some  games 
with  'em,  though" — he  laughed  again:  "Very 
nervous  people,  the  Germans.  If  we  stop  firm' 
in  our  lines,  up  they  send  the  star  shells,  rockets 
and  all,  to  see  what's  goin'  on — think  we're  goin' 
to  attack — regular  'lumination  o'  fireworks — very 
nervous  people.  Then  we  send  up  some  rockets 
on  our  side — just  to  'ave  some  fun — proper  dis- 
play o'  fireworks."  He  went  off  into  a  roar: 
"Must  'ave  a  bit  o'  fun,  you  know." 
"Is  it  true  they  can't  stand  the  bayonet?" 
"Yes,  that's  right — they'll  tell  yu  so  them- 
selves— very  sensitive,  nervous  people." 


RECORDED  123 

And  after  that  a  silence  fell.  The  elder  babe 
was  still  fretful,  and  the  mother's  face  had  on 
it  that  most  moving  phenomenon  of  this  world — 
the  strange,  selfless,  utterly  absorbed  look,  mouth 
just  loosened,  eyes  off  where  we  cannot  follow, 
the  whole  being  wrapped  in  warmth  of  her  baby 
against  her  breast.  And  he,  with  the  tiny  placid 
baby,  had  gone  off  into  another  sort  of  dream, 
with  his  slightly  frowning,  far-away  look.  What 
was  it  all  about? — nothing  perhaps!  A  great 
quality,  to  be  able  to  rest  in  vacancy. 

He  stirred  and  I  offered  him  the  paper,  but  he 
shook  his  head. 

"Thank  yu;  don't  care  about  lookin'  at  'em. 
They  don't  know  half  what  we  do  out  there — 
from  what  I've  seen  of  'em  since  I  come  back,  I 
don't  seem  to  'ave  any  use  for  'em.  The  pic- 
tures, too — "  He  shrugged  and  shook  his  head. 
"  We  'ave  the  real  news,  y'see.  They  don't  keep 
nothin'  from  us.  But  we're  not  allowed  to  say. 
When  we  advance  there'll  be  some  lives  lost,  I 
tellyu!" 

He  nodded,  thinking  for  a  second  perhaps  of 
his  own.  "Can't  be  helped!  Once  we  get  'em 
on  the  run,  we  shan't  give  'em  much  time." 
Just  then  the  baby  on  his  knee  woke  up  and  di- 
rected on  him  the  full  brunt  of  its  wide-open 
bright  grey  eyes.  Its  rosy  cheeks  were  so  broad 


124  TATTERDEMALION 

and  fat  that  its  snub  nose  seemed  but  a  button; 
its  mouth,  too  tiny,  one  would  think,  for  use, 
smiled.  Seeing  that  smile  he  said: 

"Well,  what  do  yu  want?  Proper  little  gem, 
ain't  yu!"  And  suddenly  looking  up  at  me,  he 
added  with  a  sort  of  bashful  glee:  "My  old 
people'll  go  fair  mad  when  they  see  me — go  fair 
mad  they  will."  He  seemed  to  dwell  on  the 
thought,  and  I  saw  the  wife  give  him  a  long  soft 
smiling  look.  He  added  suddenly: 

"I'll  'ave  to  travel  back,  though,  Saturday — 
catch  the  six  o'clock  from  Victoria,  Sunday — to 
cross  over  there." 

Very  soon  after  that  we  arrived  at  where  he 
changed,  and  putting  on  his  goatskin,  his  cap, 
and  overcoat,  he  got  out  behind  his  wife,  carry- 
ing with  the  utmost  care  those  queer  companions, 
his  baby  and  his  rifle. 

Where  is  he  now  ?    Alive,  dead  ?    Who  knows  ? 

1915. 


VII 
THE  RECRUIT 

Several  times  since  that  fateful  Fourth  of 
August  he  had  said:  "I  sh'll  'ave  to  go." 

And  the  farmer  and  his  wife  would  look  at 
him,  he  with  a  sort  of  amusement,  she  with  a 
queer  compassion  in  her  heart,  and  one  or  the 
other  would  reply  smiling:  "That's  all  right, 
Tom,  there's  plenty  Germans  yet.  Yu  wait  a 
bit." 

His  mother,  too,  who  came  daily  from  the 
lonely  cottage  in  the  little  combe  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  big  hill  to  work  in  the  kitchen  and  farm 
dairy,  would  turn  her  dark  taciturn  head,  with 
still  plentiful  black  hair,  towards  his  face  which, 
for  all  its  tan,  was  so  weirdly  reminiscent  of  a 
withered  baby,  pinkish  and  light-lashed,  with 
forelock  and  fair  hair  thin  and  rumpled,  and 
small  blue  eyes,  and  she  would  mutter: 

"Don't  yu  never  fret,  boy.  They'll  come  for 
'ee  fast  enough  when  they  want  'ee."  No  one, 
least  of  all  perhaps  his  mother,  could  take  quite 
seriously  that  little  square  short-footed  man, 

125 


126  TATTERDEMALION 

born  when  she  was  just  seventeen.  Sure  of  work 
because  he  was  first-rate  with  every  kind  of  beast, 
he  was  yet  not  looked  on  as  being  quite  'all 
there/  He  could  neither  read  nor  write,  had 
scarcely  ever  been  outside  the  parish,  and  then 
only  in  a  shandrydan  on  a  Club  treat,  and  he 
knew  no  more  of  the  world  than  the  native  of  a 
small  South  Sea  Island.  His  life  from  school  age 
on  had  been  passed  year  in,  year  out,  from  dawn 
till  dark,  with  the  cattle  and  their  calves,  the 
sheep,  the  horses  and  the  wild  moor  ponies; 
except  when  hay  or  corn  harvest,  or  any  exception- 
ally exacting  festival  absorbed  him  for  the  mo- 
ment. From  shyness  he  never  went  into  the 
bar  of  the  Inn,  and  so  had  missed  the  greater 
part  of  village  education.  He  could  of  course 
read  no  papers,  a  map  was  to  him  but  a  mystic 
mass  of  marks  and  colours;  he  had  never  seen 
the  sea,  never  a  ship;  no  water  broader  than  the 
parish  streams;  until  the  war  had  never  met 
anything  more  like  a  soldier  than  the  constable  of 
the  neighbouring  village.  But  he  had  once  seen 
a  Royal  Marine  in  uniform.  What  sort  of  crea- 
tures these  Germans  were  to  him — who  knows? 
They  were  cruel — he  had  grasped  that.  Some- 
thing noxious,  perhaps,  like  the  adders  whose 
backs  he  broke  with  his  stick;  something  danger- 
ous like  the  chained  dog  at  Shapton  Farm;  or  the 


THE  RECRUIT  127 

big  bull  at  Vannacombe.  When  the  war  first 
broke  out,  and  they  had  called  the  younger 
blacksmith  (a  reservist  and  noted  village  marks- 
man) back  to  his  regiment,  the  little  cowman 
had  smiled  and  said:  "Wait  till  regiment  gets  to 
front,  Fred'll  soon  shoot  'em  up." 

But  weeks  and  months  went  by,  and  it  was 
always  the  Germans,  the  Germans;  Fred  had 
clearly  not  yet  shot  them  up;  and  now  one  and 
now  another  went  off  from  the  village,  and  two 
from  the  farm  itself;  and  the  great  Fred  returned 
slightly  injured  for  a  few  weeks'  rest,  and,  full 
of  whisky  from  morning  till  night,  made  the 
village  ring;  and  finally  went  off  again  in  a  mood 
of  manifest  reluctance.  All  this  weighed  dumbly 
on  the  mind  of  the  little  cowman,  the  more 
heavily  that  because  of  his  inarticulate  shyness 
he  could  never  talk  that  weight  away,  nor  could 
anyone  by  talk  relieve  him,  no  premises  of  knowl- 
edge or  vision  being  there.  From  sheer  physical 
contagion  he  felt  the  grizzly  menace  in  the  air, 
and  a  sense  of  being  left  behind  when  others  were 
going  to  meet  that  menace  with  their  fists,  as  it 
were.  There  was  something  proud  and  sturdy 
in  the  little  man,  even  in  the  look  of  him,  for  all 
that  he  was  'poor  old  Tom,'  who  brought  a  smile 
to  the  lips  of  all.  He  was  passionate,  too,  if 
rubbed  up  the  wrong  way;  but  it  needed  the 


128  TATTERDEMALION 

malevolence  and  ingenuity  of  human  beings  to 
annoy  him — with  his  beasts  he  never  lost  his 
temper,  so  that  they  had  perfect  confidence  in 
him.  He  resembled  indeed  herdsmen  of  the 
Alps,  whom  one  may  see  in  dumb  communion 
with  their  creatures  up  in  those  high  solitudes; 
for  he  too  dwelt  in  a  high  solitude  cut  off  from 
real  fellowship  with  men  and  women  by  lack  of 
knowledge,  and  by  the  supercilious  pity  in  them. 
Living  in  such  a  remote  world  his  talk — when  he 
did  say  something — had  ever  the  surprising  qual- 
ity attaching  to  the  thoughts  of  those  by  whom 
the  normal  proportions  of  things  are  quite  un- 
known. His  short  square  figure,  hatless  and 
rarely  coated  in  any  weather,  dotting  from  foot 
to  foot,  a  bit  of  stick  in  one  hand,  and  often  a 
straw  in  the  mouth — he  did  not  smoke — was 
familiar  in  the  yard  where  he  turned  the  handle 
of  the  separator,  or  in  the  fields  and  cowsheds, 
from  daybreak  to  dusk,  save  for  the  hours  of 
dinner  and  tea,  which  he  ate  in  the  farm  kitchen, 
making  sparse  and  surprising  comments.  To  his 
peculiar  whistles  and  calls  the  cattle  and  calves, 
for  all  their  rumination  and  stubborn  shyness, 
were  amazingly  responsive.  It  was  a  pretty  sight 
to  see  them  pushing  against  each  other  round  him 
— for,  after  all,  he  was  as  much  the  source  of 
their  persistence,  especially  through  the  scanty 


THE  RECRUIT  129 

winter  months,  as  a  mother  starling  to  her  un- 
fledged young. 

When  the  Government  issued  their  request  to 
householders  to  return  the  names  of  those  of 
military  age  ready  to  serve  if  called  on,  he  heard 
of  it,  and  stopped  munching  to  say  in  his  abrupt 
fashion:  "I'll  go — fight  the  Germans."  But  the 
farmer  did  not  put  him  down,  saying  to  his  wife: 

"Poor  old  Tom!  Twidden  be  'ardly  fair—- 
they'd be  makin'  game  of  'un." 

And  his  wife,  her  eyes  shining  with  motherli- 
ness,  answered:  "Poor  lad,  he's  not  fit-like." 

The  months  went  on — winter  passing  to  spring 
— and  the  slow  decking  of  the  trees  and  fields  be- 
gan with  leaves  and  flowers,  with  butterflies  and 
the  songs  of  birds.  How  far  the  little  cowman 
would  notice  such  a  thing  as  that  no  one  could 
ever  have  said,  devoid  as  he  was  of  the  vocabu- 
lary of  beauty,  but  like  all  the  world  his  heart 
must  have  felt  warmer  and  lighter  under  his  old 
waistcoat,  and  perhaps  more  than  most  hearts, 
for  he  could  often  be  seen  standing  stock-still  in 
the  fields,  his  browning  face  turned  to  the  sun. 

Less  and  less  he  heard  talk  of  Germans — dogged 
acceptance  of  the  state  of  war  having  settled  on 
that  far  countryside — the  beggars  were  not 
beaten  and  killed  off  yet,  but  they  would  be  in 
good  time.  It  was  unpleasant  to  think  of  them 


130  TATTERDEMALION 

more  than  could  be  helped.  Once  in  a  way  a 
youth  went  off  and  '  'listed/  but  though  the  parish 
had  given  more  perhaps  than  the  average,  a  good 
few  of  military  age  still  clung  to  life  as  they  had 
known  it.  Then  some  bright  spirit  conceived 
the  notion  that  a  county  regiment  should  march 
through  the  remoter  districts  to  rouse  them  up. 

The  cuckoo  had  been  singing  five  days;  the 
lanes  and  fields,  the  woods  and  the  village  green 
were  as  Joseph's  coat,  so  varied  and  so  bright 
the  foliage,  from  golden  oak-buds  to  the  brilliant 
little  lime-tree  leaves,  the  feathery  green  shoots 
of  larches,  and  the  already  darkening  bunches  of 
the  sycamores.  The  earth  was  dry — no  rain  for 
a  fortnight — when  the  cars  containing  the  brown- 
clad  men  and  a  recruiting  band  drew  up  before 
the  Inn.  Here  were  clustered  the  farmers,  the 
innkeeper,  the  grey-haired  postman;  by  the 
Church  gate  and  before  the  schoolyard  were  knots 
of  girls  and  children,  school-mistress,  school- 
master, parson;  and  down  on  the  lower  green  a 
group  of  likely  youths,  an  old  labourer  or  two, 
and  apart  from  human  beings  as  was  his  wont, 
the  little  cowman  in  brown  corduroys  tied  below 
the  knee,  and  an  old  waistcoat,  the  sleeves  of  his 
blue  shirt  dotted  with  pink,  rolled  up  to  the 
elbows  of  his  brown  arms.  So  he  stood,  his  brown 
neck  and  shaven-looking  head  quite  bare,  with 


THE  RECRUIT  131 

his  bit  of  stick  wedged  between  his  waist  and  the 
ground,  staring  with  all  his  light-lashed  water- 
blue  eyes  from  under  the  thatch  of  his  forelock. 

The  speeches  rolled  forth  glib;  the  khaki-clad 
men  drank  their  second  fill  that  morning  of  coffee 
and  cider;  the  little  cowman  stood  straight  and 
still,  his  head  drawn  back.  Two  figures — officers, 
men  who  had  been  at  the  front — detached  them- 
selves and  came  towards  the  group  of  likely 
youths.  These  wavered  a  little,  were  silent,  snig- 
gered, stood  their  ground — the  khaki-clad  figures 
passed  among  them.  Hackneyed  words,  jests, 
the  touch  of  flattery,  changing  swiftly  to  chaff — 
all  the  customary  performance,  hollow  and  pa- 
thetic; and  then  the  two  figures  re-emerged,  their 
hands  clenched,  their  eyes  shifting  here  and 
there,  their  lips  drawn  back  in  fixed  smiles. 
They  had  failed,  and  were  trying  to  hide  it. 
They  must  not  show  contempt — the  young  slack- 
ers might  yet  come  in,  when  the  band  played. 

The  cars  were  filled  again,  the  band  struck  up: 
'It's  a  long  long  way  to  Tipperary.' 

And  at  the  edge  of  the  green  within  two  yards 
of  the  car's  dusty  passage  the  little  cowman  stood 
apart  and  stared.  His  face  was  red.  Behind 
him  they  were  cheering — the  parson  and  farmers, 
school  children,  girls,  even  the  group  of  youths. 
He  alone  did  not  cheer,  but  his  face  grew  still 


132  TATTERDEMALION 

more  red.  When  the  dust  above  the  road  and 
the  distant  blare  of  Tipperary  had  dispersed  and 
died,  he  walked  back  to  the  farm  dotting  from 
one  to  other  of  his  short  feet.  All  that  afternoon 
and  evening  he  spoke  no  word;  but  the  flush 
seemed  to  have  settled  in  his  face  for  good  and 
all.  He  milked  some  cows,  but  forgot  to  bring 
the  pails  up.  Two  of  his  precious  cows  he  left 
unmilked  till  their  distressful  lowing  caused  the 
farmer's  wife  to  go  down  and  see.  There  he  was 
standing  against  a  gate  moving  his  brown  neck 
from  side  to  side  like  an  animal  in  pain,  oblivious 
seemingly  of  everything.  She  spoke  to  him: 

"What's  matter,  Tom?"  All  he  could  answer 
was: 

"I'se  goin',  I'se  goin'."  She  milked  the  cows 
herself. 

For  the  next  three  days  he  could  settle  to 
nothing,  leaving  his  jobs  half  done,  speaking  to 
no  one  save  to  say: 

"I'se  goin';  I'se  got  to  go."  Even  the  beasts 
looked  at  him  surprised. 

On  the  Saturday  the  farmer  having  consulted 
with  his  wife,  said  quietly: 

"Well,  Tom,  ef  yu  want  to  go,  yu  shall.  I'll 
drive  'ee  down  Monday.  Us  won't  du  nothin* 
to  keep  yu  back." 

The  little  cowman  nodded.    But  he  was  rest- 


THE  RECRUIT  133 

less  as  ever  all  through  that  Sunday,  eating 
nothing. 

On  Monday  morning  arrayed  in  his  best  clothes 
he  got  into  the  dog-cart.  There,  without  good- 
bye to  anyone,  not  even  to  his  beasts,  he  sat 
staring  straight  before  him,  square,  and  jolting 
up  and  down  beside  the  farmer,  who  turned  on 
him  now  and  then  a  dubious  almost  anxious  eye. 

So  they  drove  the  eleven  miles  to  the  recruiting 
station.  He  got  down,  entered,  the  farmer  with 
him. 

"Well,  my  lad,"  they  asked  him,  "what  d'  you 
want  to  join?" 

"Royal  Marines." 

It  was  a  shock,  coming  from  the  short,  square 
figure  of  such  an  obvious  landsman.  The  farmer 
took  him  by  the  arm. 

"Why,  yu'm  a  Devon  man,  Tom,  better  take 
county  regiment.  An't  they  gude  enough  for 

yu?" 
Shaking  his  head  he  answered:    "Royal  Ma- 


rines." 


Was  it  the  glamour  of  the  words  or  the  Royal 
Marine  he  had  once  seen,  that  moved  him  to 
wish  to  join  that  outlandish  corps?  Who  shall 
say?  There  was  the  wish,  immovable;  they 
took  him  to  the  recruiting  station  for  the  Royal 
Marines. 


134  TATTERDEMALION 

Stretching  up  his  short,  square  body,  and 
blowing  out  his  cheeks  to  increase  his  height,  he 
was  put  before  the  reading  board.  His  eyes 
were  splendid;  little  that  passed  in  hedgerows  or 
the  heaven,  in  woods  or  on  the  hillsides,  could 
escape  them.  They  asked  him  to  read  the  print. 

Staring,  he  answered:  "L." 

"No,  my  lad,  you're  guessing." 

"L." 

The  farmer  plucked  at  the  recruiting  officer's 
sleeve,  his  face  was  twitching,  and  he  whispered 
hoarsely: 

"'E  don'  know  'is  alphabet." 

The  officer  turned  and  contemplated  that 
short  square  figure  with  the  browned  face  so 
reminiscent  of  a  withered  baby,  and  the  little 
blue  eyes  staring  out  under  the  dusty  forelock. 
Then  he  grunted,  and  going  upjx>  him,  laid  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Your  heart's  all  right,  my  lad,  but  you  can't 
pass." 

The  little  cowman  looked  at  him,  turned,  and 
went  straight  out.  An  hour  later  he  sat  again 
beside  the  farmer  on  the  way  home,  staring  be- 
fore him  and  jolting  up  and  down. 

''They  won't  get  me,"  he  said  suddenly:  "I 
can  fight,  but  I'se  not  goin'."  A  fire  of  resent- 
ment seemed  to  have  been  lit  within  him.  That 


THE  RECRUIT  135 

evening  he  ate  his  tea,  and  next  day  settled  down 
again  among  his  beasts.  But  whenever,  now,  the 
war  was  mentioned,  he  would  look  up  with  his 
puckered  smile  which  seemed  to  have  in  it  a  re- 
sentful amusement,  and  say: 

"They  a'nt  got  me  yet." 

His  dumb  sacrifice  passing  their  comprehen- 
sion, had  been  rejected — or  so  it  seemed  to  him. 
He  could  not  understand  that  they  had  spared 
him.  Why!  He  was  as  good  as  they!  His 
pride  was  hurt.  No !  They  should  not  get  him 
now! 

1916. 


VIII 
THE  PEACE  MEETING 

Colin  Wilderton,  coining  from  the  West  on  his 
way  to  the  Peace  Meeting,  fell  in  with  John 
Rudstock,  coming  from  the  North,  and  they 
walked  on  together.  After  they  had  commented 
on  the  news  from  Russia  and  the  inflation  of 
money,  Rudstock  said  abruptly: 

"We  shall  have  a  queer  meeting,  I  expect." 

"God  knows!"  answered  Wilderton. 

And  both  smiled,  conscious  that  they  were  un- 
easy, but  predetermined  not  to  show  it  under  any 
circumstances.  Their  smiles  were  different,  for 
Rudstock  was  a  black-browed  man,  with  dark 
beard  and  strong,  thick  figure,  and  Wilderton  a 
very  light-built,  grey-haired  man,  with  kindly  eyes 
and  no  health.  He  had  supported  the  war  an 
immense  time,  and  had  only  recently  changed 
his  attitude.  In  common  with  all  men  of  warm 
feelings,  he  had  at  first  been  profoundly  moved 
by  the  violation  of  Belgium.  The  horrors  of  the 
German  advance  through  that  little  country  and 
through  France,  to  which  he  was  temperamentally 
attached,  had  stirred  in  him  a  vigorous  detesta- 

137 


138  TATTERDEMALION 

tion,  freely  expressed  in  many  ways.  Extermina- 
tion, he  had  felt  all  those  early  months,  was 
hardly  good  enough  for  brutes  who  could  commit 
such  crimes  against  humanity  and  justice;  and 
his  sense  of  the  need  for  signal  defeat  of  a  noxious 
force  riding  rough-shod  over  the  hard-won  de- 
cency of  human  life  had  survived  well  into  the 
third  year  of  the  war.  He  hardly  knew,  himself, 
when  his  feeling  had  begun — not  precisely  to 
change,  but  to  run,  as  it  were,  in  a  different  chan- 
nel. A  man  of  generous  instincts,  artistic  tastes, 
and  unsteady  nerves  too  thinly  coated  with  that 
God-given  assurance  which  alone  fits  a  man  for 
knowing  what  is  good  for  the  wrorld,  he  had  be- 
come gradually  haunted  by  the  thought  that  he 
was  not  laying  down  his  own  life,  but  only  the 
lives  of  his  own  and  other  peoples'  sons.  And  the 
consideration  that  he  was  laying  them  down  for 
the  benefit  of  their  own  future  had  lost  its  grip 
on  him.  At  moments  he  was  still  able  to  see 
that  the  war  he  had  so  long  supported  had  not 
yet  attained  sufficient  defeat  of  the  Prussian 
military  machine  to  guarantee  that  future;  but 
his  pity  and  distress  for  all  these  young  lives,  cut 
down  without  a  chance  to  flower,  had  grown  till 
he  had  become,  as  it  were,  a  gambler.  What 
good — he  would  think — to  secure  the  future  of 
the  young  in  a  Europe  which  would  soon  have 


THE  PEACE.  MEETING    •        139 

no  young !  Every  country  was  suffering  hideously 
—the  criminal  country  not  least,  thank  God! 
Suppose  the  war  were  to  go  on  for  another  year, 
two,  three  years,  and  then  stop  from  sheer  ex- 
haustion of  both  sides,  while  all  the  time  these 
boys  were  being  killed  and  maimed,  for  nothing 
more,  perhaps,  than  could  be  obtained  to-day. 
What  then?  True,  the  Government  promised 
victory,  but  they  never  promised  it  within  a  year. 
Governments  did  not  die;  what  if  they  were  to 
go  on  promising  it  a  year  hence,  till  everybody 
else  was  dead !  Did  history  ever  show  that  vic- 
tory in  the  present  could  guarantee  the  future? 
And  even  if  not  so  openly  defeated  as  was  desira- 
ble, this  damnable  Prussianism  had  got  such  a 
knock  that  it  could  never  again  do  what  it  had 
in  the  past.  These  last,  however,  were  but  side 
reflections,  toning  down  for  him  the  fact  that  his 
nerves  could  no  longer  stand  this  vicarious 
butchery  of  youth.  And  so  he  had  gradually  be- 
come that  "traitor  to  his  country,  a  weak-kneed 
Peace  by  Negotiation  man."  Physically  his  knees 
really  were  weak,  and  he  used  to  smile  a  wry  smile 
when  he  read  the  expression. 

John  Rudstock,  of  vigorous  physique,  had  op- 
posed the  war,  on  principle,  from  the  start,  not 
because,  any  more  than  Wilderton,  he  approved 
of  Prussianism,  but  because,  as  an  essentially 


140  TATTERDEMALION 

combative  personality,  he  opposed  everything 
that  was  supported  by  a  majority;  the  greater  the 
majority,  the  more  bitterly  he  opposed  it;  and 
no  one  would  have  been  more  astonished  than  he 
at  hearing  that  this  was  his  principle.  He  pre- 
ferred to  put  it  that  he  did  not  believe  in  opposing 
Force  by  Force.  In  peace-time  he  was  a  "stal- 
wart/' in  war-time  a  "renegade." 

The  street  leading  to  the  chapel  which  had 
been  engaged  seemed  quiet  enough.  Designed 
to  make  an  impression  on  public  opinion,  every 
care  had  been  taken  that  the  meeting  should  not 
attract  the  public  eye.  God's  protection  had 
been  enlisted,  but  two  policemen  also  stood  at 
the  entrance,  and  half  a  dozen  others  were  sus- 
piciously near  by.  A  thin  trickle  of  persons, 
mostly  women,  were  passing  through  the  door. 
Colin  Wilderton,  making  his  way  up  the  aisle  to 
the  platform,  wrinkled  his  nose,  thinking:  "Stuffy 
in  here."  It  had  always  been  his  misfortune  to 
love  his  neighbours  individually,  but  to  dislike 
them  in  a  bunch.  On  the  platform  some  fifteen 
men  and  women  were  already  gathered.  He 
seated  himself  modestly  in  the  back  row,  while 
John  Rudstock,  less  retiring,  took  his  place  at  the 
chairman's  right  hand.  The  speakers  began  with 
a  precipitancy  hardly  usual  at  a  public  meeting. 
Wilderton  listened,  and  thought:  "Dreadfully 


THE  PEACE  MEETING  141 

clich4 ;  why  can't  someone  say  straight  out  that 
boys  enough  have  been  killed?"  He  had  become 
conscious  of  a  muttering  noise,  too,  as  of  the  tide 
coming  in  on  a  heavy  wind;  it  broke  suddenly 
into  component  parts — human  voices  clamouring 
outside.  He  heard  blows  raining  on  the  door, 
saw  sticks  smashing  in  the  windows.  The  audi- 
ence had  risen  to  its  feet,  some  rushing  to  defend 
the  doors,  others  standing  irresolute.  John  Rud- 
stock  was  holding  up  the  chair  he  had  been  sit- 
ting on.  Wilderton  had  just  time  to  think:  "I 
thought  so,"  when  a  knot  of  young  men  in  khaki 
burst  into  the  chapel,  followed  by  a  crowd.  He 
knew  he  was  not  much  good  in  a  scrimmage,  but 
he  placed  himself  at  once  in  front  of  the  nearest 
woman.  At  that  moment,  however,  some  sol- 
diers, pouring  through  a  side-door,  invaded  the 
platform  from  behind,  and  threw  him  down  the 
'steps.  He  arrived  at  the  bottom  with  a  bump, 
and  was  unable  to  get  up  because  of  the  crowd 
around  him.  Someone  fell  over  him;  it  was 
Rudstock,  swearing  horribly.  He  still  had  the 
chair  in  his  hand,  for  it  hit  Wilderton  a  nasty 
blow.  The  latter  saw  his  friend  recover  his  feet 
and  swing  the  weapon,  and  with  each  swing  down 
went  some  friend  or  foe,  until  he  had  cleared 
quite  a  space  round  him.  Wilderton,  still  weak 
and  dizzy  from  his  fall,  sat  watching  this  Homeric 


142  TATTERDEMALION 

battle.  Chairs,  books,  stools,  sticks  were  flying 
at  Rudstock,  who  parried  them,  or  diverted  their 
course  so  that  they  carried  on  and  hit  Wilderton, 
or  crashed  against  the  platform.  He  heard  Rud- 
stock roar  like  a  lion,  and  saw  him  advance, 
swinging  his  chair;  down  went  two  young  men  in 
khaki,  down  went  a  third  in  mufti;  a  very  tall 
young  soldier,  also  armed  with  a  chair,  dashed 
forward,  and  the  two  fought  in  single  combat. 
Wilderton  had  got  on  his  feet  by  now,  and,  ad- 
justing his  eyeglass,  for  he  could  see  little  with- 
out, he  caught  up  a  hymn-book,  and,  flinging  it  at 
the  crowd  with  all  his  force,  shouted:  "Hoo- 
bloodyray !"  and  followed  with  his  fists  clenched. 
One  of  them  encountered  what  must  have  been 
the  jaw  of  an  Australian,  it  was  so  hard  against 
his  hand;  he  received  a  vicious  punch  in  the  ribs 
and  was  again  seated  on  the  ground.  He  could 
still  hear  his  friend  roaring,  and  the  crash  of 
chairs  meeting  in  mid-air.  Something  fell  heavily 
on  him.  It  was  Rudstock — he  was  insensible. 
There  was  a  momentary  lull,  and  peering  up  as 
best  he  could  from  underneath  the  body,  Wilder- 
ton  saw  that  the  platform  had  been  cleared  of  all 
its  original  inhabitants,  and  was  occupied  mainly 
by  youths  in  navy-blue  and  khaki.  A  voice  called 
out: 

"Order!    Silence!" 


THE  PEACE  MEETING  143 

Rubbing  Rudstock's  temples  with  brandy  from 
a  flask  which  he  had  had  the  foresight  to  slip  into 
his  pocket,  he  listened  as  best  he  could,  with  the 
feet  of  the  crowd  jostling  his  anatomy. 

''Here  we  are,  boys,"  the  voice  was  saying, 
"and  here  we'll  always  be  when  these  treacherous 
blighters  try  their  games  on.  No  peace,  no  peace 
at  any  price !  We've  got  to  show  them  that  we 
won't  have  it.  Leave  the  women  alone — though 
they  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves;  but  for 
the  men — the  skunks — shooting's  too  good  for 
them.  Let  them  keep  off  the  course' or  we'll 
make  them.  We've  broken  up  this  meeting,  and 
we'll  break  up  every  meeting  that  tries  to  talk 
of  peace.  Three  cheers  for  the  old  flag !" 

During  the  cheers  which  followed  Wilderton 
was  discovering  signs  of  returning  consciousness 
in  his  friend.  Rudstock  had  begun  to  breathe 
heavily,  and,  pouring  some  brandy  into  his 
mouth,  he  propped  him  up  as  best  he  could 
against  a  wooden  structure,  which  he  suddenly 
perceived  to  be  the  chapel's  modest  pulpit.  A 
thought  came  to  his  dazed  brain.  If  he  could 
get  up  into  that,  as  if  he  had  dropped  from 
Heaven,  they  might  almost  listen  to  him.  He 
disengaged  his  legs  from  under  Rudstock,  and 
began  crawling  up  the  steps  on  hands  and  knees. 
Once  in  the  pulpit  he  sat  on  the  floor  below  the 


144  TATTERDEMALION 

level  of  visibility,  getting  his  breath,  and  listening 
to  the  cheers.  Then,  smoothing  his  hair,  he  rose, 
and  waited  for  the  cheers  to  stop.  He  had  cal- 
culated rightly.  His  sudden  appearance,  his 
grey  hair,  eyeglass,  and  smile  deceived  them  for 
a  moment.  There  was  a  hush. 

"Boys!"  he  said,  "listen  to  me  a  second,  I 
want  to  ask  you  something.  What  on  earth  do 
you  think  we  came  here  for?  Simply  and  solely 
because  we  can't  bear  to  go  on  seeing  you  killed 
day  after  day,  month  after  month,  year  after 
year.  That's  all,  and  it's  Christ's  truth.  Amen ! " 

A  strange  gasp  and  mutter  greeted  this  little 
speech;  then  a  dull  voice  called  out: 

"Pro-German!" 

Wildfcrton  flung  up  his  hand. 

"The  Germans  to  hell !"  he  said  simply. 

The  dull  voice  repeated: 

"Pro-German !"  And  the  speaker  on  the  plat- 
form called  out:  "Come  out  of  that!  When  we 
want  you  to  beg  us  off  we'll  let  you  know." 

Wilderton  spun  round  to  him. 

"You're  all  wonderful !"  he  began,  but  a  hymn- 
book  hit  him  fearfully  on  the  forehead,  and  he 
sank  down  into  the  bottom  of  the  pulpit.  This 
last  blow,  coming  on  the  top  of  so  many  others, 
had  deprived  him  of  intelligent  consciousness; 
he  was  but  vaguely  aware  of  more  speeches, 


THE  PEACE  MEETING  145 

cheers,  and  tramplings,  then  of  a  long  hush,  and 
presently  found  himself  walking  out  of  the  chapel 
door  between  Rudstock  and  a  policeman.  It  was 
not  the  door  by  which  they  had  entered^  and  led 
to  an  empty  courtyard. 

"Can  you  walk?"  said  the  policeman. 

Wilderton  nodded. 

"Then  walk  off!"  said  the  policeman,  and 
withdrew  again  into  the  house  of  God. 

They  walked,  holding  each  other's  arms,  a 
little  unsteadily  at  first.  Rudstock  had  a  black 
eye  and  a  cut  on  his  ear,  the  blood  from  which 
had  stained  his  collar  and  matted  his  beard. 
Wilderton's  coat 'was  torn,  his  forehead  bruised, 
his  cheek  swollen,  and  he  had  a  pain  in  his  back 
which  prevented  him  from  walking  very  upright. 
They  did  not  speak,  but  hi  an  archway  did  what 
they  could  with  pins  and  handkerchiefs,  and  by 
turning  up  Rudstock's  coat  collar,  to  regain  some- 
thing of  respectability.  When  they  were  once 
more  under  way  Rudstock  said  coldly: 

"I  heard  you.  You  should  have  spoken  for 
yourself.  I  came,  as  you  know,  because  I  don't 
believe  in  opposing  force  by  force.  At  the  next 
peace  meeting  we  hold  I  shall  make  that  plainer." 

Wilderton  murmured: 

"Yes,  yes;  I  saw  you — I'm  sure  you  will.  I 
apologise;  I  was  carried  away." 


146  TATTERDEMALION 

Rudstock  went  on  in  a  deep  voice: 

"As  for  those  young  devils,  they  may  die  to 
a  man  if  they  like!  Take  my  advice  and  let 
them  alone." 

Wilderton  smiled  on  the  side  which  was  not 
swollen. 

"Yes/'  he  said  sadly,  "it  does  seem  difficult 
to  persuade  them  to  go  on  living.  Ah,  well !" 

"Ah,  well!"  he  said  again,  five  minutes  later, 
"they're  wonderful — poor  young  beggars!  I'm 
very  unhappy,  Rudstock!" 

"I'm  not,"  said  Rudstock,  "I've  enjoyed  it  in 
a  way !  Good-night ! " 

They  shook  hands,  screwing  up  their  mouths 
with  pain,  for  their  fists  were  badly  bruised,  and 
parted,  Rudstock  going  to  the  North,  Wilderton 
to  the  West. 

1917. 


IX 
"THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED" 

Until  the  great  war  was  over  I  had  no  idea 
that  some  of  us  who  stayed  at  home  made  the 
great  sacrifice. 

My  friend  Harburn  is,  or  rather  was,  a  North- 
umbrian, or  some  kind  of  Northerner,  a  stocky 
man  of  perhaps  fifty,  with  close-clipped  grizzled 
hair  and  moustache,  and  a  deep-coloured  face. 
He  was  a  neighbour  of  mine  in  the  country,  and 
we  had  the  same  kind  of  dogs — Airedales,  never 
less  than  three  at  a  time,  so  that  for  breeding 
purposes  we  were  useful  to  each  other.  We  often, 
too,  went  up  to  Town  by  the  same  train.  His 
occupation  was  one  which  gave  him  opportunity 
of  prominence  in  public  life,  but  until  the  war  he 
took  little  advantage  of  this,  sunk  in  a  kind  of 
bluff  indifferentism  which  was  almost  cynical. 
I  used  to  look  on  him  as  a  typically  good-natured 
blunt  Englishman,  rather  enjoying  his  cynicism, 
and  appreciating  his  open-air  tendencies — for  he 
was  a  devotee  of  golf,  and  fond  of  shooting  when 
he  had  the  chance;  a  good  companion,  too,  with 
an  open  hand  to  people  in  distress.  He  was  un- 
married, and  dwelled  in  a  bungalow-like  house 

147 


148  TATTERDEMALION 

not  far  from  mine,  and  next  door  to  a  German 
family  called  Holsteig,  who  had  lived  in  England 
nearly  twenty  years.  I  knew  them  pretty  well 
also — a  very  united  trio,  father,  mother,  and  one 
son.  The  father,  who  came  from  Hanover,  was 
something  in  the  City,  the  mother  was  Scotch, 
and  the  son — the  one  I  knew  best  and  liked  most 
—had  just  left  his  public  school.  This  youth 
had  a  frank,  open,  blue-eyed  face,  and  thick 
light  hair  brushed  back  without  a  parting — a 
very  attractive,  slightly  Norwegian-looking  type. 
His  mother  was  devoted  to  him;  she  was  a  real 
West  Highlander,  slight,  with  dark  hair  going 
grey,  high  cheekbones,  a  sweet  but  rather  ironical 
smile,  and  those  grey  eyes  which  have  second 
sight  in  them.  I  several  times  met  Harburn  at 
their  house,  for  he  would  go  in  to  play  billiards 
with  Holsteig  in  the  evenings,  and  the  whole 
family  were  on  very  friendly  terms  with  him. 

The  third  morning  after  we  had  declared  war 
on  Germany  Harburn,  Holsteig,  and  I  went  up 
to  Town  in  the  same  carriage.  Harburn  and  I 
talked  freely.  But  Holsteig,  a  fair,  well-set-up 
man  of  about  fifty,  with  a  pointed  beard  and  blue 
eyes  like  his  son,  sat  immersed  in  his  paper  till 
Harburn  said  suddenly: 

"I  say,  Holsteig,  is  it  true  that  your  boy  was 
going  off  to  join  the  German  army?" 


"THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"    149 

Holsteig  looked  up. 

"Yes/'  he  said.  "He  was  born  in  Germany; 
he's  liable  to  military  service.  But  thank 
heaven,  it  isn't  possible  for  him  to  go." 

"But  his  mother?"  said  Harburn.  "She 
surely  wouldn't  have  let  him?" 

"She  was  very  miserable,  of  course,  but  she 
thought  duty  came  first." 

"Duty!  Good  God! — my  dear  man!  Half 
British,  and  living  in  this  country  all  his  life! 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing ! ' '  Holsteig  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"In  a  crisis  like  this,  what  can  you  do  except 
follow  the  law  strictly?  He  is  of  military  age 
and  a  German  subject.  We  were  thinking  of  his 
honour;  but  of  course  we're  most  thankful  he 
can't  get  over  to  Germany." 

"Well,  I'm  damned!"  said  Harburn.  "You 
Germans  are  too  bally  conscientious  altogether." 

Holsteig  did  not  answer. 

I  travelled  back  with  Harburn  the  same  evening, 
and  he  said  to  me: 

"Once  a  German,  always  a  German.  Didn't 
that  chap  Holsteig  astonish  you  this  morning? 
In  spite  of  living  here  so  long  and  marrying  a 
British  wife,  his  sympathies  are  dead  German, 
you  see." 

"Well,"  I  replied;  "put  yourself  in  his  place." 


150  TATTERDEMALION 

"I  can't;  I  could  never  have  lived  in  Germany. 
I  wonder/'  he  added  reflectively,  "I  wonder  if 
the  chap's  all  right,  Cumbermere  ?  " 

"Of  course  he's  all  right."  Which  was  the 
wrong  thing  to  say  to  Harburn  if  one  wanted  to 
re-establish  his  confidence  in  the  Holsteigs,  as  I 
certainly  did,  for  I  liked  them  and  was  sure  of 
their  good  faith.  If  I  had  said:  "Of  course  he's 
a  spy" — I  should  have  rallied  all  Harburn's  con- 
fidence in  Holsteig,  for  he  was  naturally  contra- 
dictious. 

I  only  mention  this  little  passage  to  show  how 
early  Harburn's  thoughts  began  to  turn  to  the 
subject  which  afterwards  completely  absorbed 
and  inspired  him  till  he  died  for  his  country. 

I  am  not  sure  what  paper  first  took  up  the 
question  of  interning  all  the  Huns;  but  I  fancy 
the  point  was  raised  originally  rather  from  the 
instinct,  deeply  implanted  in  so  many  journals, 
for  what  would  please  the  public,  than  out  of  any 
deep  animus.  At  all  events  I  remember  meeting 
a  sub-editor,  who  told  me  he  had  been  opening 
letters  of  approval  all  the  morning.  "Never," 
said  he,  "have  we  had  a  stunt  catch  on  so  quickly. 
'Why  should  that  bally  German  round  the  cor- 
ner get  my  custom?'  and  so  forth.  Britain  for 
the  British!" 

"Rather  bad  luck,"  I  said,  "on  people  who've 


"THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"    151 

paid  us  the  compliment  of  finding  this  the  best 
country  to  live  in!" 

"Bad  luck,  no  doubt/'  he  replied,  "mais  la 
guerre  c'est  la  guerre.  You  know  Harburn,  don't 
you?  Did  you  see  the  article  he  wrote?  By 
Jove,  he  pitched  it  strong." 

When  next  I  met  Harburn  himself,  he  began 
talking  on  this  subject  at  once. 

"  Mark  my  words,  Cumbermere,  I'll  have  every 
German  out  of  this  country."  His  grey  eyes 
seemed  to  glint  with  the  snap  and  spark  as  of 
steel  and  flint  and  tinder;  and  I  felt  I  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  man  who  had  brooded  so  over  the 
German  atrocities  in  Belgium  that  he  was  pos- 
sessed by  a  sort  of  abstract  hate. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "there  have  been  many 
spies,  but " 

"Spies  and  ruffians,"  he  cried,  "the  whole  lot 
of  them." 

"How  many  Germans  do  you  know  person- 
ally?" I  asked  him. 

"Thank  God!    Not  a  dozen." 

"And  are  they  spies  and  ruffians?" 

He  looked  at  me  and  laughed,  but  that  laugh 
was  uncommonly  like  a  snarl. 

"You  go  in  for  'fairness,'"  he  said;  "and  all 
that  slop;  take  'em  by  the  throat — it's  the  only 
way." 


152  TATTERDEMALION 

It  trembled  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  ask  him 
whether  he  meant  to  take  the  Holsteigs  by  the 
throat,  but  I  swallowed  it,  for  fear  of  doing  them 
an  injury.  I  was  feeling  much  the  same  general 
abhorrence  myself,  and  had  to  hold  myself  in  all 
the  time  for  fear  it  should  gallop  over  my  common- 
sense.  But  Harburn,  I  could  see,  was  giving  it 
full  rein.  His  whole  manner  and  personality 
somehow  had  changed.  He  had  lost  geniality, 
and  that  good-humoured  cynicism  which  had 
made  him  an  attractive  companion;  he  was  as 
if  gnawed  at  inwardly — in  a  word,  he  already  had 
a  fixed  idea. 

Now,  a  cartoonist  like  myself  has  got  to  be 
interested  in  the  psychology  of  men  and  things, 
and  I  brooded  over  Harburn,  for  it  seemed  to  me 
remarkable  that  one  whom  I  had  always  associ- 
ated with  good  humour  and  bluff  indifference 
should  be  thus  obsessed.  And  I  formed  this 
theory  about  him:  'Here' — I  said  to  myself — 'is 
one  of  Cromwell's  Ironsides,  born  out  of  his  age. 
In  the  slack  times  of  peace  he  discovered  no 
outlet  for  the  grim  within  him — his  fire  could 
never  be  lighted  by  love,  therefore  he  drifted  in 
the  waters  of  indifferentism.  Now  suddenly  in 
this  grizzly  time  he  has  found  himself,  a  new 
man,  girt  and  armed  by  this  new  passion  of  hate; 
stung  and  uplifted,  as  it  were,  by  the  sight  of  that 


"THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"    153 

which  he  can  smite  with  a  whole  heart.  It's 
deeply  interesting' — I  said  to  myself — 'Who 
could  have  dreamed  of  such  a  reincarnation;  for 
what  on  the  surface  could  possibly  be  less  alike 
than  an  'Ironside/  and  Harburn  as  I've  known 
him  up  to  now?'  And  I  used  his  face  for  the 
basis  of  a  cartoon  which  represented  a  human 
weather-vane  continually  pointing  to  the  East,  no 
matter  from  what  quarter  the  wind  blew.  He  rec- 
ognised himself,  and  laughed  when  he  saw  me — 
rather  pleased,  in  fact,  but  in  that  laugh  there 
was  a  sort  of  truculence,  as  if  the  man  had  the 
salt  taste  of  blood  at  the  back  of  his  mouth. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "you  may  joke  about  it,  but 
I've  got  my  teeth  into  them  all  right.  The 
swine!" 

And  there  was  no  doubt  he  had — the  man  had 
become  a  force;  unhappy  Germans,  a  few  of  them 
spies,  no  doubt,  but  the  great  majority  as  cer- 
tainly innocent,  were  being  wrenched  from  their 
trades  and  families,  and  piled  into  internment 
camps  all  day  and  every  day.  And  the  faster 
they  were  piled  in,  the  higher  grew  his  stock,  as  a 
servant  of  his  country.  I'm  sure  he  did  not  do  it 
to  gain  credit;  the  thing  was  a  crusade  to  him/ 
something  sacred — '  his  bit ';  but  I  believe  he  also 
felt  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  was  really 
living,  getting  out  of  life  the  full  of  its  juice. 


154  TATTERDEMALION 

Was  he  not  smiting  hip  and  thigh?  He  longed, 
I  am  sure,  to  be  in  the  thick  of  the  actual  fighting, 
but  age  debarred  him,  and  he  was  not  of  that 
more  sensitive  type  which  shrinks  from  smiting 
the  defenceless  if  it  cannot  smite  anything 
stronger.  I  remember  saying  to  him  once: 

"Harburn,  do  you  ever  think  of  the  women 
and  children  of  your  victims?" 

He  drew  his  lips  back,  and  I  saw  how  excellent 
his  teeth  were. 

"The  women  are  worse  than  the  men,  I  believe," 
he  said.  "I'd  put  them  in,  too,  if  I  could.  As 
for  the  children,  they're  all  the  better  for  being 
without  fathers  of  that  kidney." 

He  really  was  a  little  mad  on  the  subject;  no 
more  so,  of  course,  than  any  other  man  with  a 
fixed  idea,  but  certainly  no  less. 

In  those  days  I  was  here,  there,  and  every- 
where, and  had  let  my  country  cottage,  so  I  saw 
nothing  of  the  Holsteigs,  and  indeed  had  pretty 
well  forgotten  their  existence.  But  coming  back 
at  the  end  of  1917  from  a  long  spell  with  the 
Red  Cross  I  found  among  my  letters  one  from 
Mrs.  Holsteig: 

"Dear  Mr.  Cumbennere, 

You  were  always  so  friendly  to  us  that  I  have  sum- 
moned up  courage  to  write  this  letter.  You  know  per- 
haps that  my  husband  was  interned  over  a  year  ago,  and 


"THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"    155 

repatriated  last  September;  he  has  lost  everything,  of 
course;  but  so  far  he  is  well  and  able  to  get  along  in  Ger- 
many. Harold  and  I  have  been  jogging  on  here  as  best 
we  can  on  my  own  little  income — 'Huns  in  our  midst'  as 
we  are,  we  see  practically  nobody.  What  a  pity  we  can- 
not all  look  into  each  other's  hearts,  isn't  it?  I  used  to 
think  we  were  a  '  fair-play '  people,  but  I  have  learned  the 
bitter  truth — that  there  is  no  such  thing  when  pressure 
comes.  It's  much  worse  for  Harold  than  for  me;  he  feels 
his  paralysed  position  intensely,  and  would,  I'm  sure, 
really  rather  be  'doing  his  bit'  as  an  interned,  than  be 
at  large,  subject  to  everyone's  suspicion  and  scorn.  But 
I  am  terrified  all  the  time  that  they  will  intern  him. 
You  used  to  be  intimate  with  Mr.  Harburn.  We  have 
not  seen  him  since  the  first  autumn  of  the  war,  but  we 
know  that  he  has  been  very  active  in  the  agitation,  and 
is  very  powerful  in  this  matter.  I  have  wondered  whether 
he  can  possibly  realise  what  this  indiscriminate  intern- 
ment of  the  innocent  means  to  the  families  of  the  in- 
terned. Could  you  not  find  a  chance  to  try  and  make 
him  understand?  If  he  and  a  few  others  were  to  stop 
hounding  on  the  government,  it  would  cease,  for  the  au- 
thorities must  know  perfectly  well  that  all  the  dangerous 
have  been  disposed  of  long  ago.  You  have  no  notion 
how  lonely  one  feels  in  one's  native  land  nowadays;  if  I 
should  lose  Harold  too  I  think  I  might  go  under,  though 
that  has  never  been  my  habit. 

Believe  me,  dear  Mr.  Cumbermere, 
Most  truly  yours 

HELEN  HOLSTEIG." 

On  receiving  this  letter  I  was  moved  by  com- 
passion, for  it  required  no  stretch  of  imagination 


156  TATTERDEMALION 

to  picture  the  life  of  that  lonely  British  mother 
and  her  son;  and  I  thought  very  carefully  over  the 
advisability  of  speaking  to  Harburn,  and  con- 
sulted the  proverbs:  "Speech  is  silver,  but  Silence 
is  golden — When  in  doubt  play  trumps."  "Sec- 
ond thoughts  are  best — He  who  hesitates  is  lost." 
"Look  before  you  leap — Delays  are  dangerous." 
They  balanced  so  perfectly  that  I  had  recourse 
to  Commonsense,  which  told  me  to  abstain. 
But  meeting  Harburn  at  the  Club  a  few  days 
later  and  finding  him  in  a  genial  mood,  I  let 
impulse  prevail,  and  said: 

"By  the  way,  Harburn,  you  remember  the 
Holsteigs?  I  had  a  letter  from  poor  Mrs.  Hol- 
steig  the  other  day;  she  seems  terrified  that 
they'll  intern  her  son,  that  particularly  nice  boy. 
Don't  you  think  it's  time  you  let  up  on  these  un- 
happy people?" 

The  moment  I  reached  the  word  Holsteig  I 
saw  I  had  made  a  mistake,  and  only  went  on 
because  to  have  stopped  at  that  would  have 
been  worse  still.  The  hair  had  bristled  up  on 
his  back,  as  it  were,  and  he  said: 

"Holsteig?  That  young  pup  who  was  off  to 
join  the  German  army  if  he  could?  By  George, 
is  he  at  large  still?  This  Government  will  never 
learn.  I'll  remember  him." 

"Harburn,"  I  stammered,  "I  spoke  of  this  in 


"THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"    157 

confidence.  The  boy  is  half  British,  and  a  friend 
of  mine.  I  thought  he  was  a  friend  of  yours 
too." 

"Of  mine?"  he  said.  "No  thank  you.  No 
mongrels  for  me.  As  to  confidence,  Cumbermere, 
there's  no  such  thing  in  war  time  over  what  con- 
cerns the  country's  safety." 

"Good  God!"  I  exclaimed.  "You  really  are 
crazy  on  this  subject.  That  boy — with  his 
bringing-up !" 

He  grinned.  "We're  taking  no  risks,"  he  said, 
"and  making  no  exceptions.  The  British  army 
or  an  internment  camp.  I'll  see  that  he  gets  the 
alternatives." 

"If  you  do,"  I  said,  rising,  "we  cease  to  be 
friends.  I  won't  have  my  confidence  abused." 

"Oh !  Hang  it  all !"  he  grumbled;  "sit  down ! 
We  must  all  do  our  duty." 

"You  once  complained  to  Holsteig  himself  of 
that  German  peculiarity." 

He  laughed.  "I  did,"  he  said;  "I  remember — 
in  the  train.  I've  changed  since  then.  That 
pup  ought  to  be  in  with  all  the  other  swine- 
hounds.  But  let  it  go." 

There  the  matter  rested,  for  he  had  said: 
"Let  it  go,"  and  he  was  a  man  of  his  word.  It 
was,  however,  a  lesson  to  me  not  to  meddle  with 
men  of  temperament  so  different  from  my  own. 


158  TATTERDEMALION 

I  wrote  to  young  Holsteig  and  asked  him  to  come 
and  lunch  with  me.  He  thanked  me,  but  could 
not,  of  course,  being  confined  to  a  five-mile 
radius.  Really  anxious  to  see  him,  I  motor- 
biked  down  to  their  house.  I  found  a  very- 
changed  youth;  moody  and  introspective,  thor- 
oughly forced  in  upon  himself,  and  growing  bitter. 
He  had  been  destined  for  his  father's  business, 
and,  marooned  as  he  was  by  his  nationality,  had 
nothing  to  do  but  raise  vegetables  in  their  garden 
and  read  poetry  and  philosophy — not  occupations 
to  take  a  young  man  out  of  himself.  Mrs. 
Holsteig,  whose  nerves  were  evidently  at  crack- 
ing point,  had  become  extremely  bitter,  and  lost 
all  power  of  seeing  the  war  as  a  whole.  All  the 
ugly  human  qualities  and  hard  people  which  the 
drive  and  pressure  of  a  great  struggle  inevitably 
bring  to  the  top  seemed  viewed  by  her  now  as  if 
they  were  the  normal  character  of  her  fellow  coun- 
trymen, and  she  made  no  allowance  for  the  fact 
that  those  fellow  countrymen  had  not  com- 
menced this  struggle,  nor  for  the  certainty  that 
the  same  ugly  qualities  and  hard  people  were  just 
as  surely  to  the  fore  in  every  other  of  the  fight- 
ing countries.  The  certainty  she  felt  about  her 
husband's  honour  had  made  her  regard  his  in- 
ternment and  subsequent  repatriation  as  a  per- 
sonal affront,  as  well  as  a  wicked  injustice.  Her 


"THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"    159 

tall  thin  figure  and  high-cheekboned  face  seemed 
to  have  been  scorched  and  withered  by  some 
inner  flame;  she  could  not  have  been  a  wholesome 
companion  for  her  boy  in  that  house,  empty  even 
of  servants.  I  spent  a  difficult  afternoon  in 
muzzling  my  sense  of  proportion,  and  journeyed 
back  to  Town  sore,  but  very  sorry. 

I  was  off  again  with  the  Red  Cross  shortly 
after,  and  did  not  return  to  England  till  August 
of  1918.  I  was  unwell,  and  went  down  to  my 
cottage,  now  free  to  me  again.  The  influenza 
epidemic  was  raging,  and  there  I  developed  a 
mild  attack;  when  I  was  convalescent  my  first 
visitor  was  Harburn,  who  had  come  down  to  his 
bungalow  for  a  summer  holiday.  He  had  not 
been  in  the  room  five  minutes  before  he  was  off 
on  his  favourite  topic.  My  nerves  must  have 
been  on  edge  from  illness,  for  I  cannot  express 
the  disgust  with  which  I  listened  to  him  on  that 
occasion.  He  seemed  to  me  just  like  a  dog  who 
mumbles  and  chews  a  mouldy  old  bone  with  a 
sort  of  fury.  There  was  a  kind  of  triumph  about 
him,  too,  which  was  unpleasant,  though  not  sur- 
prising, for  he  was  more  of  a  'force'  than  ever. 
'God  save  me  from  the  fixed  idea!'  I  thought, 
when  he  was  gone.  That  evening  I  asked  my 
old  housekeeper  if  she  had  seen  young  Mr.  Hoi- 
steig  lately. 


160  TATTERDEMALION 

"Oh!  no,"  she  said;  "he's  been  put  away  this 
five  month.  Mrs.  'Olsteig  goes  up  once  a  week 
to  see  'im,  'Olsteig.  She's  nigh  out  of  her  mind, 
poor  lady — the  baker  says;  that  fierce  she  is 
about  the  Gover'ment." 

I  confess  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  go  and 
see  her. 

About'  a  month  after  the  armistice  had  been 
signed  I  came  down  to  my  cottage  again.  Har- 
burn  was  in  the  same  train,  and  he  gave  me  a 
lift  from  the  station.  He  was  more  like  his  old 
good-humoured  self,  and  asked  me  to  dinner  the 
next  day.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  met  him 
since  the  victory.  We  had  a  most  excellent  re- 
past, and  drank  the  health  of  the  Future  hi  some 
of  his  oldest  port.  Only  when  we  had  drawn 
up  to  the  blazing  wood  fire  in  that  softly  lighted 
room,  with  our  glasses  beside  us  and  two  Aire- 
dales asleep  at  our  feet,  did  he  come  round  to 
his  hobby. 

"What  do  you  think?"  he  said,  suddenly  lean- 
ing towards  the  flames,  "some  of  these  blazing 
sentimentalists  want  to  release  our  Huns.  But 
I've  put  my  foot  on  it;  they  won't  get  free  till 
they're  out  of  this  country  and  back  in  their 
precious  Germany."  And  I  saw  the  familiar 
spark  and  smoulder  in  his  eyes. 

"Harburn,"   I   said,   moved   by   an   impulse 


"THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"    161 

which  I  couldn't  resist,  "I  think  you  ought  to 
take  a  pill."  ) 

He  stared  at  me. 

"This  way  madness  lies,"  I  went  on.  "Hate 
is  a  damned  insidious  disease;  men's  souls  can't 
stand  very  much  of  it  without  going  pop.  You 
want  purging." 

He  laughed. 

"  Hate !  I  thrive  on  it.  The  more  I  hate  the 
brutes,  the  better  I  feel.  Here's  to  the  death  of 
every  cursed  Hun !" 

I  looked  at  him  steadily.  "I  often  think,"  I 
said,  "that  there  could  have  been  no  more  un- 
happy men  on  earth  than  Cromwell's  Ironsides,  or 
the  red  revolutionaries  in  France,  when  then- 
work  was  over  and  done  with." 

"What's  that  to  do  with  me?"  he  said, 
amazed. 

"They  too  smote  out  of  sheer  hate,  and  came 
to  an  end  of  their  smiting.  When  a  man's  occu- 
pation's gone " 

"You're  drivelling!"  he  said  sharply. 

"Far  from  it,"  I  answered,  nettled.  "Yours  is 
a  curious  case,  Harburn.  Most  of  our  profes- 
sional Hun-haters  have  found  it  a  good  stunt,  or 
are  merely  weak  sentimentalists;  they  can  drop 
it  easily  enough  when  it  ceases  to  be  a  good  stunt, 
or  a  parrot's  war-cry.  You  can't;  with  you  it's 


162  TATTERDEMALION 

mania,  religion.  When  the  tide  ebbs  and  leaves 
you  high  and  dry " 

He  struck  his  fist  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  up- 
setting his  glass  and  awakening  the  Airedale  at 
his  feet. 

"I  won't  let  it  ebb,"  he  said;  "I'm  going  on 
with  this — Mark  me ! " 

" Remember  Canute!"  I  muttered.  "May  I 
have  some  more  port?"  I  had  got  up  to  fill 
my  glass  when  I  saw  to  my  astonishment  that  a 
woman  was  standing  in  the  long  window  which 
opened  on  to  the  verandah.  She  had  evidently 
only  just  come  in,  for  she  was  still  holding  the 
curtain  in  her  hand.  It  was  Mrs.  Holsteig,  with 
her  fine  grey  hair  blown  about  her  face,  looking 
strange  and  almost  ghostly  in  a  grey  gown. 
Harburn  had  not  seen  her,  so  I  went  quickly 
towards  her,  hoping  to  get  her  to  go  out  again 
as  silently,  and  speak  to  me  on  the  verandah; 
but  she  held  up  her  hand  with  a  gesture  as  if  she 
would  push  me  back,  and  said: 

"Forgive  my  interrupting;  I  came  to  speak  to 
that  man." 

Startled  by  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Harburn 
jumped  up  and  spun  round  towards  it. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated  quite  quietly;  "I  came  to 
speak  to  you;  I  came  to  put  my  curse  on  you. 
Many  have  put  their  curses  on  you  silently;  I 


"THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"     163 

do  so  to  your  face.  My  son  lies  between  life  and 
death  in  your  prison — your  prison.  Whether  he 
lives  or  dies  I  curse  you  for  what  you  have  done 
to  poor  wives  and  mothers — to  British  wives  and 
mothers.  Be  for  ever  accursed!  Good-night!" 

She  let  the  curtain  fall,  and  had  vanished  be- 
fore Harburn  had  time  to  reach  the  window.  She 
vanished  so  swiftly  and  silently,  she  had  spoken 
so  quietly,  that  both  he  and  I  stood  rubbing  our 
eyes  and  ears. 

"A  bit  theatrical !"  he  said  at  last. 

"Perhaps,"  I  answered  slowly;  "but  you  have 
been  cursed  by  a  live  Scotswoman.  Look  at 
those  dogs!" 

The  two  Airedales  were  standing  stock-still 
with  the  hair  bristling  on  their  backs. 

Harburn  suddenly  laughed,  and  it  jarred  the 
whole  room. 

"By  George !"  he  said,  "I  believe  that's  action- 
able." 

But  I  was  not  in  that  mood,  and  said  tartly: 

"If  it  is,  we  are  all  food  for  judges." 

He  laughed  again,  this  time  uneasily,  slammed 
the  window  to,  bolted  it,  and  sat  down  again  in 
his  chair. 

"He's  got  the  'flue,'  I  suppose,"  he  said.  "She 
must  think  me  a  prize  sort  of  idiot  to  have  come 
here  with  such  tomfoolery." 


164  TATTERDEMALION 

But  our  evening  was  spoiled,  and  I  took  my 
leave  almost  at  once.  I  went  out  into  the  roupy 
raw  December  night  pondering  deeply.  Harburn 
had  made  light  of  it,  and  though  I  suppose  no 
man  likes  being  cursed  to  his  face  in  the  presence 
of  a  friend,  I  felt  his  skin  was  quite  thick  enough 
to  stand  it.  Besides,  it  was  too  cheap  and  crude 
a  way  of  carrying  on.  Anybody  can  go  into  his 
neighbour's  house  and  curse  him — and  no  bones 
broken.  And  yet — what  she  had  said  was  no 
doubt  true;  hundreds  of  women — of  his  fellow 
countrywomen — must  silently  have  put  their 
curse  on  one  who  had  been  the  chief  compeller 
of  their  misery.  Still,  he  had  put  his  curse  on 
the  Huns  and  their  belongings,  and  I  felt  he  was 
man  enough  to  take  what  he  had  given.  'No,' 
I  thought,  'she  has  only  fanned  the  flame  of  his 
hate.  But,  by  Jove!  that's  just  it!  Her  curse 
has  fortified  my  prophecy!'  It  was  of  his  own 
state  of  mind  that  he  would  perish;  and  she  had 
whipped  and  deepened  that  state  of  mind.  And, 
odd  as  it  may  seem,  I  felt  quite  sorry  for  him,  as 
one  is  for  a  poor  dog  that  goes  mad,  does  what 
harm  he  can,  and  dies.  I  lay  awake  that  night  a 
long  time  thinking  of  him,  and  of  that  unhappy, 
half-crazed  mother,  whose  son  lay  between  life 
-and  death. 

Next  day  I  went  to  see  her,  but  she  was  up  in 


"THE  DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"    165 

London,  hovering  round  the  cage  of  her  son,  no 
doubt.  I  heard  from  her,  however,  some  days 
later,  thanking  me  for  coming,  and  saying  he  was 
out  of  danger.  But  she  made  no  allusion  to  that 
evening  visit.  Perhaps  she  was  ashamed  of  it. 
Perhaps  she  was  demented  when  she  came,  and 
had  no  remembrance  thereof. 

Soon  after  this  I  went  to  Belgium  to  illustrate 
a  book  on  Reconstruction,  and  found  such  sub- 
jects that  I  was  not  back  in  Town  till  the  late 
summer  of  1919.  Going  into  my  Club  one  day 
I  came  on  Harburn  in  the  smoking-room.  The 
curse  had  not  done  him  much  harm,  it  seemed, 
for  he  looked  the  picture  of  health. 

"Well,  how  are  you?"  I  said.  "You  look  at 
the  top  of  your  form." 

"Never  better,"  he  replied. 

" Do  you  remember  our  last  evening  together? " 

He  uttered  a  sort  of  gusty  grunt,  and  did  not 
answer. 

"That  boy  recovered,"  I  said.  "What's  hap- 
pened to  him  and  his  mother,  since?" 

"The  ironical  young  brute !  I've  just  had  this 
from  him."  And  he  handed  me  a  letter  with  the 
Hanover  post  mark. 

"Dear  Mr.  Harburn, 

It  was  only  on  meeting  my  mother  here  yesterday  that 
I  learned  of  her  visit  to  you  one  evening  last  December. 


166  TATTERDEMALION 

I  wish  to  apologise  for  it,  since  it  was  my  illness  which 
caused  her  to  so  forget  herself.  I  owe  you  a  deep  debt 
of  gratitude  for  having  been  at  least  part  means  of  giving 
me  the  most  wonderful  experience  of  my  life.  In  that 
camp  of  sorrow — where  there  was  sickness  of  mind  and 
body  such  as  I  am  sure  you  have  never  seen  or  realised, 
such  endless  hopeless  mental  anguish  of  poor  huddled 
creatures  turning  and  turning  on  themselves  year  after 
year — I  learned  to  forget  myself,  and  to  do  my  little  best 
for  them.  And  I  learned,  and  I  hope  I  shall  never  for- 
get it,  that  feeling  for  one's  fellow  creatures  is  all  that 
stands  between  man  and  death;  I  was  going  fast  the  other 
way  before  I  was  sent  there.  I  thank  you  from  my  heart, 
and  beg  to  remain, 

Very  faithfully  yours 

HAROLD  HOLSTEIG." 


I  put  it  down,  and  said: 

"That's  not  ironical.    He  means  it." 

"Bosh !"  said  Harburn,  with  the  old  spark  and 

smoulder  in  his  eyes.    "He's  pulling  my  leg — the 

swinelet  Hun!" 

"He  is  not,  Harburn;  I  assure  you." 
Harburn  got  up.    "He  is ;  I  tell  you  he  is. 

Ah !    Those  brutes !    Well !    I  haven't  done  with 

them  yet." 
And  I  heard  the  snap  of  his  jaw,  and  saw  his 

eyes  fixed  fiercely  on  some  imaginary  object.    I 

changed  the  subject  hurriedly,  and  soon  took  my 


DOG  IT  WAS  THAT  DIED"    167 

departure.  But  going  down  the  steps,  an  old 
jingle  came  into  my  head,  and  has  hardly  left  it 
since: 

"The  man  recovered  from  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died." 

1919. 


X 

IN  HEAVEN  AND   EARTH 

We  were  yarning  after  dinner,  and,  whether 
because  three  of  us  were  fishermen,  or  simply 
that  we  were  all  English,  our  yarns  were  taking 
a  competitive  turn.  The  queerest  thing  seen 
during  the  War  was  the  subject  of  our  tongues, 
and  it  was  not  till  after  several  tit-bits  had  been 
digested  that  Mallinson,  the  painter,  ill  and 
ironical,  blue-eyed,  and  with  a  fair  pointed  beard, 
took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  said: 

"Well,  you  chaps,  what  I  saw  last  week  down 
in  Kent  takes  some  beating.  I'd  been  sketching 
in  a  hay-field,  and  was  just  making  back  along 
the  top  hedge  to  the  lane  when  I  heard  a  sound 
from  the  other  side  like  a  man's  crying.  I  put 
my  eye  to  a  gap,  and  there,  about  three  yards  hi, 
was  a  grey-haired  bloke  in  a  Norfolk  jacket  and 
flannel  trousers,  digging  like  a  fiend,  and  crying 
like  a  baby — blowing,  and  gasping  and  sobbing, 
tears  and  sweat  rolling  down  into  his  beard  like 
rivers.  He'd  plunge  his  pick  in,  scratch,  and 
shovel,  and  hack  at  the  roots  as  if  for  dear  life — • 
he  was  making  the  hole  too  close  to  the  hedge,  of 

169 


170  TATTERDEMALION 

course — and  all  the  time  carrying  on  like  that. 
I  thought  he  must  be  digging  his  own  grave  at 
least.  Suddenly  he  put  his  pick  down,  and  there 
just  under  the  hedge  I  saw  a  dead  brown  dog, 
lying  on  its  side,  all  limp.  I  never  see  a  dead 
animal  myself,  you  know,  without  a  bit  of  a 
choke;  they're  so  soft,  and  lissom;  the  peace, 
and  the  pity — a  sort  of  look  of:  "Why — why—- 
when I  was  so  alive?"  Well,  this  elderly  Johnny 
took  a  good  squint  at  it,  to  see  if  the  hole  was  big 
enough,  then  off  he  went  again,  sobbing  and  dig- 
ging like  a  fiend.  It  was  really  a  bit  too  weird, 
and  I  mouched  off.  But  when  I'd  gone  about 
half  a  mile,  I  got  an  attack  of  the  want-to-knows, 
came  back,  and  sneaked  along  the  hedge.  There 
he  was  still,  but  he  had  finished,  and  was  having 
a  mop  round,  and  putting  the  last  touches  to  a 
heap  of  stones.  I  strolled  up,  and  said: 

'Hot  work,  Sir,  digging,  this  weather!' 

He  was  a  good-looking  old  grey-beard,  with  an 
intellectual  face,  high  forehead  and  all  that. 

'I'm  not  used  to  it/  he  said,  looking  at  his 
blisters. 

'Been  burying  a  dog?  Horrid  job  that!— 
favourite,  I'm  afraid.' 

He  seemed  in  two  minds  whether  to  shut  me 
up  and  move  off,  but  he  didn't. 

'Yes/  he  said;  'it's  cut  me  up  horribly.    I 


IN  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH          171 

never  condemned  a  creature  to  death  before. 
And  dogs  seem  to  know.' 

'Ah!  They're  pretty  uncanny/  I  said,  for  I 
wasn't  going  to  let  on,  of  course,  that  I  had  seen 
him. 

'I  wouldn't  have  done  it  but  for  the  War/  he 
muttered;  'but  she  stole  eggs,  poor  thing;  you 
couldn't  break  her  of  it.  She  ate  three  tunes  as 
much  as  any  other  dog,  too,  and  in  spite  of  it 
was  always  a  perfect  skeleton — something  wrong 
inside.  The  sort  of  dog,  you  know,  no  one  would 
take,  or  treat  decently  if  they  did.  Bad  habits 
of  every  kind,  poor  dear.  I  bought  her  because 
she  was  being  starved.  But  she  trusted  me, 
that's  why  I  feel  so  like  a  murderer.  When  the 
Vet  and  I  were  in  the  yard  discussing  her,  she 
knew  there  was  something  wrong — she  kept  look- 
ing at  my  face.  I  very  nearly  went  back  on  it; 
only,  having  got  him  out  on  purpose,  I  was 
ashamed  to.  We  brought  her  down  here,  and  on 
the  way  she  found  the  remains  of  a  rabbit  about 
a  week  old — that  was  one  of  her  accomplish- 
ments— bringing  me  the  most  fearful  offal.  She 
brought  it  up  wagging  her  tail — as  much  as  to 
say:  'See — I  am  some  use!'  The  Vet  tied  her 
up  here  and  took  his  gun;  she  wagged  her  tail 
at  that,  too;  and  I  ran  away.  When  the  shot 
came,  my  own  little  spaniel  fawned  on  me — they 


172  TATTERDEMALION 

are  uncanny — licked  me  all  over,  never  was  so 
gushing,  seemed  saying:  'What  awful  power  you 
have!  I  do  love  you!  You  wouldn't  do  that 
to  me,  would  you?  We've  got  rid  of  that  other 
one,  though!'  When  I  came  back  here  to  bury 
the  poor  thing,  and  saw  her  lying  on  her  side  so 
still,  I  made  a  real  fool  of  myself.  I  was  patting 
her  an  hour  ago,  talking  to  her  as  if  she  were  a 
human  being.  Judas ! ' ' 

Mallinson  put  his  pipe  back  into  his  mouth. 
"Just  think  of  it !"  he  said:  "The  same  creatures 
who  are  blowing  each  other  to  little  bits  all  the 
time,  bombing  babies,  roasting  fellow  creatures 
in  the  air  and  cheering  while  they  roast,  working 
day  and  night  to  inflict  every  imaginable  kind  of 
horror  on  other  men  exactly  like  themselves— 
these  same  chaps  are  capable  of  feeling  like  that 
about  shooting  a  wretched  ill  cur  of  a  dog,  no 
good  to  anybody.  There  are  more  things  in 
Heaven  and  Earth — !"  And  he  relit  his  pipe, 
which  had  gone  out. 

His  yarn  took  the  prize. 

1917. 


XI 

THE  MOTHER  STONE 

It  was  after  dinner,  and  five  elderly  English- 
men were  discussing  the  causes  of  the  war. 

"Well,"  said  Travdrs,  a  big,  fresh-coloured 
grey-beard,  with  little  twinkling  eyes  and  very 
slow  speech,  "you  gentlemen  know  more  about 
it  than  I  do,  but  I  bet  you  I  can  lay  my  finger 
on  the  cause  of  the  war  at  any  minute." 

There  was  an  instant  clamour  of  jeering.  But 
a  man  called  Askew,  who  knew  Travers  well, 
laughed  and  said:  "Come,  let's  have  it!"  Trav- 
ers turned  those  twinkling  little  eyes  of  his  slowly 
round  the  circle,  and  with  heavy,  hesitating  mod- 
esty began: 

"Well,  Mr.  Askew,  it  was  in  '67  or  '68  that  this 
happened  to  a  great  big  feller  of  my  acquaintance 
named  Ray — one  of  those  fellers,  you  know,  that 
are  always  on  the  look-out  to  make  their  for- 
tunes and  never  do.  This  Ray  was  coming  back 
south  one  day  after  a  huntin'  trip  he'd  been  in 
what's  now  called  Bechuanaland,  and  he  was  in 
a  pretty  bad  way  when  he  walked  one  evenin' 

173 


174  TATTERDEMALION 

into  the  camp  of  one  of  those  wanderin'  Boers. 
That  class  of  Boer  has  disappeared  now.  They 
had  no  farms  of  their  own,  but  just  moved  on 
with  their  stock  and  their  boys;  and  when  they 
came  to  good  pasture  they'd  outspan  and  stay 
there  till  they'd  cleared  it  out— and  then  trek 
on  again.  Well,  this  old  Boer  told  Ray  to  come 
right  in,  and  take  a  meal;  and  heaven  knows  what 
it  was  made  of,  for  those  old  Boers,  they'd  eat 
the  devil  himself  without  onion  sauce,  and  relish 
him.  After  the  meal  the  old  Boer  and  Ray  sat 
smokin'  and  yarnin'  in  the  door  of  the  tent,  be- 
cause in  those  days  these  wanderin'  Boers  used 
tents.  Right  close  by  in  the  front,  the  children 
were  playin'  in  the  dust,  a  game  like  marbles, 
with  three  or  four  round  stones,  and  they'd  pitch 
'em  up  to  another  stone  they  called  the  Moer- 
Klip,  or  Mother-stone — one,  two,  and  pick  up 
— two,  three,  and  pick  up — you  know  the  game 
of  marbles.  Well,  the  sun  was  settin'  and  pres- 
ently Ray  noticed  this  Moer-Klip  that  they  were 
pitchin'  'em  up  to,  shinin';  and  he  looked  at  it, 
and  he  said  to  the  old  Boer:  'What's  that  stone 
the  children  are  playin'  with?'  And  the  old 
Boer  looked  at  him  and  looked  at  the  stone,  and 
said:  'It's  just  a  stone,'  and  went  on  smokin'. 

"  Well,  Ray  went  down  on  his  knees  and  picked 
up  the  stone,  and  weighed  it  in  his  hand.    About 


THE  MOTHER  STONE  175 

the  size  of  a  hazel-nut  it  was,  and  looked — well, 
it  looked  like  a  piece  of  alum;  but  the  more  he 
looked  at  it,  the  more  he  thought:  'By  Jove,  I 
believe  it's  a  diamond ! ' 

"So  he  said  to  the  old  Boer:  'Where  did  the 
children  get  this  stone?'  And  the  old  Boer  said: 
'Oh!  the  shepherd  picked  it  up  somewhere/ 
And  Ray  said:  'Where  did  he  pick  it  up?'  And 
the  old  Boer  waved  his  hand,  and  said:  'Over  the 
Kopje,  there,  beyond  the  river.  How  should  I 
know,  brother? — a  stone  is  a  stone!'  So  Ray 
said:  'You  let  me  take  this  stone  away  with  me !' 
And  the  old  Boer  went  on  smokin',  and  he  said: 
'One  stone's  the  same  as  another.  Take  it, 
brother!'  And  Ray  said:  'If  it's  what  I  think, 
I'll  give  you  half  the  price  I  get  for  it.' 

"The  old  Boer  smiled,  and  said:  'That's  all 
right,  brother;  take  it,  take  it!' 

"The  next  morning  Ray  left  this  old  Boer, 
and,  when  he  was  going,  he  said  to  him:  'Well/ 
he  said,  'I  believe  this  is  a  valuable  stone!'  and 
the  old  Boer  smiled  because  he  knew  one  stone 
was  the  same  as  another. 

"The  first  place  Ray  came  to  was  C — ,  and  he 
went  to  the  hotel;  and  in  the  evenin'  he  began 
talkin'  about  the  stone,  and  they  all  laughed  at 
him,  because  in  those  days  nobody  had  heard  of 
diamonds  in  South  Africa.  So  presently  he  lost 


176  TATTERDEMALION 

his  temper,  and  pulled  out  the  stone  and  showed 
it  round;  but  nobody  thought  it  was  a  diamond, 
and  they  all  laughed  at  him  the  more.  Then 
one  of  the  fellers  said:  'If  it's  a  diamond,  it  ought 
to  cut  glass.' 

"  Ray  took  the  stone,  and,  by  Jove,  he  cut  his 
name  on  the  window,  and  there  it  is — I've  seen 
it — on  the  bar  window  of  that  hotel.  Well,  next 
day,  you  bet,  he  travelled  straight  back  to  where 
the  old  Boer  told  him  the  shepherd  had  picked 
up  the  stone,  and  he  went  to  a  native  chief  called 
Joint je,  and  said  to  him:  ' Joint je,'  he  said,  'I  go 
a  journey.  While  I  go,  you  go  about  and  send 
all  your  "boys"  about,  and  look  for  all  the  stones 
that  shine  like  this  one;  and  when  I  come  back, 
if  you  find  me  plenty,  I  give  you  gun.'  And 
Jointje  said:  'That  all  right,  Boss.' 

"And  Ray  went  down  to  Cape  Town,  and  took 
the  stone  to  a  jeweller,  and  the  jeweller  told  him 
it  was  a  diamond  of  about  30  or  40  carats,  and 
gave  him  five  hundred  pound  for  it.  So  he  bought 
a  waggon  and  a  span  of  oxen  to  give  to  the  old 
Boer,  and  went  back  to  Jointje.  The  niggers  had 
collected  skinfuls  of  stones  of  all  kinds,  and  out 
of  all  the  skinfuls  Ray  found  three  or  four  dia- 
monds. So  he  went  to  work  and  got  another 
feller  to  back  him,  and  between  them  they  made 
the  Government  move.  The  rush  began,  and 


THE  MOTHER  STONE  177 

they  found  that  place  near  Kimberley;  and  after 
that  they  found  De  Beers,  and  after  that  Kim- 
berley itself." 

Travers  stopped,  and  looked  around  him. 

"Ray  made  his  fortune,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  Mr.  Askew;  the  unfortunate  feller  made 
next  to  nothin'.  He  was  one  of  those  fellers  that 
never  do  any  good  for  themselves." 

"But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  war?" 

Again  Travers  looked  round,  and  more  slowly 
than  ever,  said: 

"Without  that  game  of  marbles,  would  there 
have  been  a  Moer-Klip — without  the  Moer-Klip, 
would  there  have  been  a  Kimberley — without 
Kimberley,  would  there  have  been  a  Rhodes — 
without  a  Rhodes,  would  there  have  been  a  Raid 
—without  a  Raid,  would  the  Boers  have  started 
armin' — if  the  Boers  hadn't  armed,  would  there 
have  been  a  Transvaal  War  ?  And  if  there  hadn't 
been  the  Transvaal  War,  would  there  have  been 
the  incident  of  those  two  German  ships  we  held 
up;  and  all  the  general  feelin'  in  Germany  that 
gave  the  Kaiser  the  chance  to  start  his  Navy 
programme  in  1900?  And  if  the  Germans  hadn't 
built  their  Navy,  would  their  heads  have  swelled 
till  they  challenged  the  world,  and  should  we 
have  had  this  war?" 

He  slowly  drew  a  hand  from  his  pocket,  and 


178  TATTERDEMALION 

put  it  on  the  table.  On  the  little  finger  was 
blazing  an  enormous  diamond. 

"My  father,"  he  said,  "bought  it  of  the  jew- 
eller." 

The  mother-stone  glittered  and  glowed,  amd 
the  five  Englishmen  fixed  their  eyes  on  it  im 
silence.  Some  of  them  had  been  in  the  Boer 
War,  and  three  of  them  had  sons  in  this.  At 
last  one  of  them  said: 

"Well,  that's  seeing  God  in  a  dew-drop  witk  a 
vengeance.  What  about  the  old  Boer?" 

Travers's  little  eyes  twinkled. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "Ray  told  me  the  old  feller 
just  looked  at  him  as  if  he  thought  he'd  done  a 
damn  silly  thing  to  give  him  a  waggon;  and  he 
nodded  his  old  head,  and  said,  laughin'  in  his 
beard:  'Wish  you  good  luck,  brother,  with  your 
stone/  You  couldn't  humbug  that  old  Boer; 
he  knew  one  stone  was  the  same  as  another." 

1914. 


XII 
POIROT  AND  BIDAN 

A   RECOLLECTION 

Coming  one  dark  December  evening  out  of 
the  hospital  courtyard  into  the  corridor  which 
led  to  my  little  workroom,  I  was  conscious  of 
two  new  arrivals.  There  were  several  men  round 
the  stove,  but  these  two  were  sitting  apart  on  a 
bench  close  to  my  door.  We  used  to  get  men  in 
all  stages  of  decrepitude,  but  I  had  never  seen 
two  who  looked  so  completely  under  the  weather. 
They  were  the  extremes — in  age,  in  colouring,  in 
figure,  in  everything;  and  they  sat  there,  not 
speaking,  with  every  appearance  of  apathy  and 
exhaustion.  The  one  was  a  boy,  perhaps  nine- 
teen, with  a  sunken,  hairless,  grey-white  face 
under  his  peaked  cap — never  surely  was  face  so 
grey!  He  sat  with  his  long  grey-blue  overcoat 
•pen  at  the  knees,  and  his  long  emaciated  hands 
mervously  rubbing  each  other  between  them. 
Intensely  forlorn  he  looked,  and  I  remember 
thinking:  "That  boy's  dying !"  This  was  Bidan. 

The  other's  face,  in  just  the  glimpse  I  had  of 

179 


180  TATTERDEMALION 

it,  was  as  if  carved  out  of  wood,  except  for  that 
something  you  see  behind  the  masks  of  driven 
bullocks,  deeply  resentful.  His  cap  was  off, 
and  one  saw  he  was  grey-haired;  his  cheeks, 
stretched  over  cheekbones  solid  as  door-handles, 
were  a  purplish-red,  his  grey  moustache  was  damp, 
his  light  blue  eyes  stared  like  a  codfish's.  He 
reminded  me  queerly  of  those  Parisian  cockers  one 
still  sees  under  their  shining  hats,  wearing  an  ex- 
pression of  being  your  enemy.  His  short  stocky 
figure  was  dumped  stolidly  as  if  he  meant  never 
to  move  again;  on  his  thick  legs  and  feet  he  wore 
mufflings  of  cloth  boot,  into  which  his  patched 
and  stained  grey-blue  trousers  were  tucked.  One 
of  his  gloved  hands  was  stretched  out  stiff  on  his 
knee.  This  was  Poirot. 

Two  more  dissimilar  creatures  were  never 
blown  together  into  our  haven.  So  far  as  I  re- 
member, they  had  both  been  in  hospital  about 
six  months,  and  their  ailments  were,  roughly 
speaking,  Youth  and  Age.  Bidan  had  not  fin- 
ished his  training  when  his  weak  constitution 
gave  way  under  it;  Poirot  was  a  Territorial  who 
had  dug  behind  the  Front  till  rheumatism  claimed 
him  for  its  own.  Bidan,  who  had  fair  hair  and 
rather  beautiful  brown  eyes  over  which  the  lids 
could  hardly  keep  up,  came  from  Aix-en-Provence, 
in  the  very  south;  Poirot  from  Nancy,  in  the  north- 


POIROT  AND  BIDAN  181 

east.    I  made  their  acquaintance  the  next  morn- 
ing. 

The  cleaning  of  old  Poirot  took,  literally  speak- 
ing, days  to  accomplish.  Such  an  encrusted  case 
we  had  never  seen;  nor  was  it  possible  to  go,  other- 
wise than  slowly,  against  his  prejudices.  One 
who,  unless  taken  exactly  the  right  way,  con- 
sidered everyone  leagued  with  Nature  to  get  the 
better  of  him,  he  had  reached  that  state  when  the 
soul  sticks  its  toes  in  and  refuses  to  budge.  A 
coachman — in  civil  life — a  socialist,  a  freethinker, 
a  wit,  he  was  the  apex  of — shall  we  say? — deter- 
mination. His  moral  being  was  encrusted  with 
perversity,  as  his  poor  hands  and  feet  with  dirt. 
Oil  was  the  only  thing  for  him,  and  I,  for  one, 
used  oil  on  him  morally  and  physically,  for 
months.  He  was  a  "character!"  His  left  hand 
— which  he  was  never  tired  of  saying  the  "majors" 
had  ruined  ("Ah!  les  cochons!")  by  leaving  it 
alone — was  stiff  in  all  its  joints,  so  that  the  fingers 
would  not  bend;  and  the  little  finger  of  the  right 
hand,  "k  petit,"  "k  coquin"  "I'empereur"  as  he 
would  severally  call  it,  was  embellished  by  chalky 
excrescences.  The  old  fellow  had  that  peculiar 
artfulness  which  comes  from  life-long  dealing 
with  horses,  and  he  knew  exactly  how  far  and 
how  quickly  it  was  advisable  for  him  to  mend  in 
health.  About  the  third  day  he  made  up  his 


182  TATTERDEMALION 

mind  that  he  wished  to  remain  with  us  at  least 
until  the  warm  weather  came.  For  that  it  would 
be  necessary — he  concluded — to  make  a  cheering 
amount  of  progress,  but  not  too  much.  And  this 
he  set  himself  to  do.  He  was  convinced,  one 
could  see,  that  after  Peace  had  been  declared  and 
compensation  assured  him,  he  would  recover  the 
use  of  his  hand,  even  if  "I'empereur"  remained 
stiff  and  chalky.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  think  he 
was  mistaken,  and  will  never  have  a  supple  left 
hand  again.  But  his  arms  were  so  brawny,  his 
constitution  so  vigorous,  and  his  legs  improved 
so  rapidly  under  the  necessity  of  taking  him  down 
into  the  little  town  for  his  glass,  of  an  afternoon, 
that  one  felt  he  might  possibly  be  digging  again 
sooner  than  he  intended. 

"Ah,  les  cochons!"  he  would  say;  "while  one 
finger  does  not  move,  they  shall  pay  me!"  He 
was  very  bitter  against  all  "majors"  save  one, 
who  it  seemed  had  actually  sympathised  with 
him,  and  all  deputes,  who  for  him  constituted  the 
powers  of  darkness,  drawing  their  salaries,  and 
sitting  in  their  chairs.  ("Ah  !  les  chameaux  A") 

Though  he  was  several  years  younger  than 
oneself,  one  always  thought  of  him  as  "Old  Poirot " 
indeed,  he  was  soon  called  "legrand-pere,"  though 
no  more  confirmed  bachelor  ever  inhabited  the 
world.  He  was  a  regular  "Miller  of  Dee,"  caring 


POIROT  AND  BIDAN  183 

for  nobody;  and  yet  he  was  likeable,  that  humor- 
ous old  stoic,  who  suffered  from  gall-stones,  and 
bore  horrible  bouts  of  pain  like  a  hero.  In  spite 
of  all  his  disabilities  his  health  and  appearance 
soon  I™'  e  robust  in  our  easy-going  hospital, 
where  no  one  was  harried,  the  food  excellent,  and 
the  air  good.  He  would  tell  you  that  his  father 
lived  to  eighty,  and  his  grandfather  to  a  hundred, 
both  "strong  men"  though  not  so  strong  as  his 
old  master,  the  squire,  of  whose  feats  in  the 
hunting-field  he  would  give  most  staggering  ac- 
counts in  an  argot  which  could  only  be  followed 
by  instinct.  A  great  narrator,  he  would  describe 
at  length  life  in  the  town  of  Nancy,  where,  when 
the  War  broke  out,  he  was  driving  a  market  cart, 
and  distributing  vegetables,  which  had  made  him 
an  authority  on  municipal  reform.  Though  an 
incorrigible  joker,  his  stockfish  countenance  would 
remain  perfectly  grave,  except  for  an  occasional 
hoarse  chuckle.  You  would  have  thought  he  had 
no  more  power  of  compassion  than  a  cat,  no  more 
sensibility  than  a  Chinese  idol;  but  this  was  not 
so.  In  his  wooden,  shrewd,  distrustful  way  he 
responded  to  sympathy,  and  was  even  sorry  for 
others.  I  used  to  like  very  much  his  attitude  to 
the  young  "stable-companion"  who  had  arrived 
with  him;  he  had  no  contempt,  such  as  he  might 
easily  have  felt  for  so  weakly  a  creature,  but 


184  TATTERDEMALION 

rather  a  real  indulgence  towards  his  feebleness. 
"Ah !"  he  would  say  at  first;  "he  won't  make  old 
bones — that  one!"  But  he  seemed  extremely 
pleased  when,  in  a  fortnight  or  so,  he  had  to 
modify  that  view,  for  Bidan  (Prosper)  pros- 
pered more  rapidly  even  than  himself.  That 
grey  look  was  out  of  the  boy's  face  within  three 
weeks.  It  was  wonderful  to  watch  him  come 
back  to  life,  till  at  last  he  could  say,  with  his 
dreadful  Provencal  twang,  that  he  felt  "tres 
biang."  A  most  amiable  youth,  he  had  been  a 
cook,  and  his  chief  ambition  was  to  travel  till  he 
had  attained  the  summit  of  mortal  hopes,  and 
was  cooking  at  the  Ritz  in  London.  When  he 
came  to  us  his  limbs  seemed  almost  to  have  lost 
their  joints,  they  wambled  so.  He  had  no  muscle 
at  all.  Utter  anaemia  had  hold  of  all  his  body, 
and  all  but  a  corner  of  his  French  spirit.  Round 
that  unquenchable  gleam  of  gaiety  the  rest  of 
him  slowly  rallied.  With  proper  food  and  air 
and  freedom,  he  began  to  have  a  faint  pink  flush 
in  his  china-white  cheeks;  his  lids  no  longer 
drooped,  his  limbs  seemed  to  regain  then-  joints, 
his  hands  ceased  to  swell,  he  complained  less  and 
less  of  the  pains  about  his  heart.  When,  of  a 
morning,  he  was  finished  with,  and  "le  grand- 
pere"  was  having  his  hands  done,  they  would  en- 
gage in  lively  repartee — oblivious  of  one's  pres- 


POIROT  AND  BIDAN  185 

ence.  We  began  to  feel  that  this  grey  ghost  of  a 
youth  had  been  well  named,  after  all,  when  they 
called  him  Prosper,  so  lyrical  would  he  wax  over 
the  constitution  and  cooking  of  "bouillabaisse," 
over  the  South,  and  the  buildings  of  his  native 
Aix-en-Provence.  In  all  France  you  could  not 
have  found  a  greater  contrast  than  those  two 
who  had  come  to  us  so  under  the  weather;  nor  in 
all  France  two  better  instances  of  the  way  men 
can  regain  health  of  body  and  spirit  in  the  right 
surroundings. 

We  had  a  tremendous  fall  of  snow  that  winter, 
and  had  to  dig  ourselves  out  of  it.  Poirot  and 
Bidan  were  of  those  who  dug.  It  was  amusing 
to  watch  them.  Bidan  dug  easily,  without  after- 
thought. "Le  grand-pere"  dug,  with  half  an  eye 
at  least  on  his  future;  in  spite  of  those  stiff  fingers 
he  shifted  a  lot  of  snow,  but  he  rested  on  his 
shovel  whenever  he  thought  you  could  see  him 
— for  he  was  full  of  human  nature. 

To  see  him  and  Bidan  set  off  for  town  together ! 
Bidan  pale,  and  wambling  a  little  still,  but  gay, 
with  a  kind  of  birdlike  detachment;  "le  grand- 
pere"  stocky,  wooden,  planting  his  huge  feet 
rather  wide  apart  and  regarding  his  companion, 
the  frosted  trees,  and  the  whole  wide  world,  with 
his  humorous  stare. 

Once,  I  regret  to  say,  when  spring  was  begin- 


186  TATTERDEMALION 

ning  to  come,  Bidan-Prosper  returned  on  "le 
grand-pere's"  arm  with  the  utmost  difficulty, 
owing  to  the  presence  within  him  of  a  liquid 
called  Clairette  de  Die,  no  amount  of  which  could 
subdue  "le  grand-pere's"  power  of  planting  one 
foot  before  the  other.  Bidan-Prosper  arrived 
hilarious,  revealing  to  the  world  unsuspected 
passions;  he  awoke  next  morning  sad,  pale, 
penitent.  Poirot,  au  contraire,  was  morose  the 
whole  evening,  and  awoke  next  morning  exactly 
the  same  as  usual.  In  such  different  ways  does 
the  gift  of  the  gods  affect  us. 

They  had  their  habits,  so  diverse,  their  consti- 
tutions, and  their  dreams — alas !  not  yet  realised. 
I  know  not  where  they  may  be  now;  Bidan- 
Prosper  cannot  yet  be  cooking  at  the  Ritz  in 
London  town;  but  " grand-pere"  Poirot  may  per- 
chance be  distributing  again  his  vegetables  in  the 
streets  of  Nancy,  driving  his  two  good  little 
horses — des  gaillards — with  the  reins  hooked  round 
"I'empereur."  Good  friends — good  luck! 

1918. 


XIII 
THE  MUFFLED  SHIP 

It  was  cold  and  grey,  but  the  band  on  shore 
was  playing,  and  the  flags  on  shore  were  flutter- 
ing, and  the  long  double-tiered  wharf  crowded 
with  welcomers  in  each  of  its  open  gaps,  when  our 
great  ship  slowly  drew  alongside,  packed  with 
cheering,  chattering  crowds  of  khaki  figures,  let- 
ting go  all  the  pent-up  excitement  of  getting 
home  from  the  war.  The  air  was  full  of  songs 
and  laughter,  of  cheers,  and  shouted  questions, 
the  hooting  of  the  launches'  sirens,  the  fluttering 
flags  and  hands  and  handkerchiefs;  and  there 
were  faces  of  old  women,  and  of  girls,  intent,  ex- 
pectant, and  the  white  gulls  were  floating  against 
the  grey  sky,  when  our  ship,  listed  slightly  by 
those  thousands  of  figures  straining  towards  the 
land  which  had  bred  them,  gently  slurred  up 
against  the  high  wharf,  and  was  made  fast. 

The  landing  went  on  till  night  had  long  fallen, 
and  the  band  was  gone.  At  last  the  chatter,  the 
words  of  command,  the  snatches  of  song,  and 
that  most  favourite  chorus:  "Me !  and  my  girl !" 
died  away,  and  the  wharf  was  silent  and  the  ship 

187 


188  TATTERDEMALION 

silent,  and  a  wonderful  clear  dark  beauty  usurped 
the  spaces  of  the  sky.  By  the  light  of  tk«  stars 
and  a  half  moon  the  far  harbour  shoren  w«-«  just 
visible,  the  huddled  buildings  on  the  near  ahore, 
the  spiring  masts  and  feathery  appanage  of  ropes 
on  the  moored  ship,  and  one  blood-red  light 
above  the  black  water.  The  night  had  all  that 
breathless  beauty  which  steeps  the  soul  in  a 
quivering,  quiet  rapture.  .  .  . 

Then  it  was  that  clearly,  as  if  I  had  been  a 
welcomer  standing  on  land  in  one  of  the  wharf 
gaps,  I  saw  her  come — slow,  slow,  creeping  up 
the  narrow  channel,  in  beside  the  wharf,  a  great 
grey  silent  ship.  At  first  I  thought  her  utterly 
empty,  deserted,  possessed  only  by  the  thick 
coiled  cables  forward,  the  huge  rusty  anchors, 
the  piled-up  machinery  of  structure  and  funnel 
and  mast,  weird  in  the  blue  darkness.  A  lantern 
on  the  wharf  cast  a  bobbing  golden  gleam  deep 
into  the  oily  water  at  her  side.  Gun-grey,  per- 
fectly mute,  she  ceased  to  move,  coming  to  rest 
against  the  wharf.  And  then,  with  a  shiver,  I 
saw  that  something  clung  round  her,  a  grey  film 
or  emanation,  which  shifted  and  hovered,  like 
the  invisible  wings  of  birds  in  a  thick  mist.  Grad- 
ually to  my  straining  eyes  that  filmy  emanation 
granulated,  and  became  faces  attached  to  grey 
filmy  forms,  thousands  on  thousands,  and  every 


THE  MUFFLED  SHIP  189 

face  bent  towards  the  shore,  staring,  as  it  seemed, 
through  me,  at  all  that  was  behind  me.  Slowly, 
very  slowly,  I  made  them  out — faces  of  helmeted 
soldiers,  bulky  with  the  gear  of  battle,  their  arms 
outstretched,  and  the  lips  of  every  one  opened, 
so  that  I  expected  to  hear  the  sound  of  cheering; 
but  no  sound  came.  Now  I  could  see  their  eyes. 
They  seemed  to  beseech — like  the  eyes  of  a  little 
eager  boy  who  asks  his  mother  something  she 
cannot  tell  him;  and  their  outstretched  hands 
seemed  trying  to  reach  her,  lovingly,  desperately 
trying  to  reach  her !  And  those  opened  lips,  how 
terribly  they  seemed  trying  to  speak !  "  Mother ! 
Mother  Canada!"  As  if  I  had  heard,  I  knew 
they  were  saying — those  opened  lips  which  could 
speak  no  more!  "Mother!  Mother  Canada! 
Home!  Home!  ..." 

And  then  away  down  the  wharf  some  one 
chanted:  "Me  and  my  girl !"  And,  silent  as  she 
had  come,  the  muffled  ship  vanished  in  all  her 
length,  with  those  grey  forms  and  those  mute 
faces;  and  I  was  standing  again  in  the  bows  be- 
side a  huge  hawser;  below  me  the  golden  gleam 
bobbing  deep  in  the  oily  water,  and  above  me 
the  cold  start  in  beauty  shining. 

1919. 


XIV 

HERITAGE 

(AN  IMPRESSION) 

From  that  garden  seat  one  could  see  the  old 
low  house  of  pinkish  brick,  with  a  path  of  queer- 
shaped  flagstones  running  its  length,  and  the  tall 
grey  chapel  from  which  came  the  humming  and 
chanting  and  organ  drone  of  the  Confirmation 
Service.  But  for  that,  and  the  voices  of  two 
gardeners  working  below  us  among  the  fruits  and 
flowers,  the  July  hush  was  complete.  And  sud- 
denly one  became  aware  of  being  watched. 

That  thin  white  windmill  on  the  hill ! 

Away  past  the  house,  perhaps  six  hundred 
yards,  it  stood,  ghostly,  with  a  face  like  that  of  a 
dark-eyed  white  owl,  made  by  the  crossing  of  its 
narrow  sails.  With  a  black  companion — a  yew- 
tree  cut  to  pyramid  form,  on  the  central  point  of 
Sussex — it  was  watching  us,  for  though  one  must 
presume  it  built  of  old  time  by  man,  it  looked  up 
there  against  the  sky,  with  its  owl's  face  and  its 
cross,  like  a  Christo-Pagan  presence. 

191 


192  TATTERDEMALION 

What  exactly  Paganism  was  we  shall  never 
know;  what  exactly  Christianism  is,  we  are  as 
little  likely  to  discover;  but  here  and  there  the 
two  principles  seem  to  dwell  together  in  amity. 
For  Paganism  believed  in  the  healthy  and  joy- 
ful body;  and  Christianism  in  the  soul  superior 
thereto.  And,  where  we  were  sitting  that  summer 
day,  was  the  home  of  bodies  wrecked  yet  learn- 
ing to  be  joyful,  and  of  souls  not  above  the 
process. 

We  moved  from  the  grey-wood  seat,  and  came 
on  tiptoe  to  where  house  and  chapel  formed  a 
courtyard.  The  doors  were  open,  and  we  stood 
unseen,  listening.  From  the  centre  of  a  square 
stone  fountain  a  little  bubble  of  water  came  up, 
and  niched  along  one  high  wall  a  number  of  white 
pigeons  were  preening  their  feathers,  silent,  and 
almost  motionless,  as  though  attending  to  the 
Service. 

The  sheer  emotion  of  church  sounds  will  now 
and  then  steal  away  reason  from  the  unbeliever, 
and  take  him  drugged  and  dreaming.  "Defend, 
O  Lord,  this  Thy  child!  ..."  So  it  came  out 
to  us  in  the  dream  and  drowse  of  summer,  which 
the  little  bubble  of  water  cooled. 

In  his  robes — cardinal,  and  white,  and  violet — 
the  good  Bishop  stood  in  full  sunlight,  speaking 
to  the  crippled  and  the  air-raid  children  in  their 


HERITAGE  193 

drilled  rows  under  the  shade  of  the  doves'  wall; 
and  one  felt  far  from  this  age,  as  if  one  had 
strayed  back  into  that  time  when  the  builders  of 
the  old  house  laid  slow  brick  on  brick,  wetting 
their  whistles  on  mead,  and  knowing  not  tobacco. 
And  then,  out  by  the  chapel  porch  moved  three 
forms  in  blue,  with  red  neckties,  and  we  were 
again  in  this  new  age,  watching  the  faces  of  those 
listening  children.  The  good  Bishop  was  making 
them  feel  that  he  was  happy  in  their  presence, 
and  that  made  them  happy  in  his.  For  the  great 
thing  about  life  is  the  going-out  of  friendliness 
from  being  to  being.  And  if  a  place  be  beautiful, 
and  friendliness  ever  on  the  peace-path  there, 
what  more  can  we  desire?  And  yet — how  iron- 
ical this  place  of  healing,  this  beautiful  "Heri- 
tage ! "  Verily  a  heritage  of  our  modern  civilisa- 
tion which  makes  all  this  healing  necessary !  If 
life  were  the  offspring  of  friendliness  and  beauty's 
long  companionship,  there  wouM  be  no  crippled 
children,  no  air-raid  children,  none  of  those  good 
fellows  in  blue  with  red  ties  and  maimed  limbs; 
and  the  colony  to  which  the  Bishop  spoke,  stand- 
ing grey-headed  in  the  sun,  would  be  dissolved. 
Friendliness  seems  so  natural,  beauty  so  appro- 
priate to  this  earth !  But  in  this  torn  world  they 
are  as  fugitives  who  nest  together  here  and  there. 
Yet  stumbling  by  chance  on  their  dove-cotes  and 


194  TATTERDEMALION 

fluttering  happiness,  one  makes  a  little  golden 
note,  which  does  not  fade  off  the  tablet. 

How  entrancing  it  is  to  look  at  a  number  of 
faces  never  seen  before — and  how  exasperating ! — 
stamped  coins  of  lives  quite  separate,  quite  differ- 
ent from  every  other;  masks  pallid,  sunburned, 
smooth,  or  crumpled,  to  peep  behind  which  one 
longs,  as  a  lover  looking  for  his  lady  at  carnival, 
or  a  man  aching  at  summer  beauty  which  he 
cannot  quite  fathom  and  possess.  If  one  had  a 
thousand  lives,  and  time  to  know  and  sympathy 
to  understand  the  heart  of  every  creature  met 
with,  one  would  want — a  million!  May  life 
make  us  all  intuitive,  strip  away  self-conscious- 
ness, and  give  us  sunshine  and  unknown  faces ! 

What  were  they  all  feeling  and  thinking — those 
little  cripples  doing  their  drill  on  crutches;  those 
air-raid  waifs  swelling  their  Cockney  chests,  rising 
on  their  toes,  puffing  their  cheeks  out  in  anxiety 
to  do  their  best;  those  soldiers  in  their  blue 
"slops,"  with  a  hand  gone  there  and  a  leg  gone 
here,  and  this  and  that  grievous  disability,  all 
carrying  on  so  cheerfully? 

Values  are  queer  in  this  world.  We  are  accus- 
tomed to  exalt  those  who  can  say  "bo ".to  a  goose; 
but  that  gift  of  expression  which  twines  a  halo 
round  a  lofty  brow  is  no  guarantee  of  goodness 


HERITAGE  195 

in  the  wearer.  The  really  good  are  those  plucky 
folk  who  plod  their  silent,  often  suffering,  gener- 
ally exploited  ways,  from  birth  to  death,  out  of 
reach  of  the  music  of  man's  praise. 

The  first  thing  each  child  cripple  makes  here 
is  a  little  symbolic  ladder.  In  making  it  he 
climbs  a  rung  on  the  way  to  his  sky  of  self-support; 
and  when  at  last  he  leaves  this  home,  he  steps 
off  the  top  of  it  into  the  blue,  and — so  they  say — 
walks  there  upright  and  undismayed,  as  if  he  had 
never  suffered  at  Fate's  hands.  But  what  do  he 
and  she — for  many  are  of  the  pleasant  sex- 
think  of  the  sky  when  they  get  there;  that  dusty 
and  smoke-laden  sky  of  the  industrialism  which 
begat  them?  How  can  they  breathe  in  it,  com- 
ing from  this  place  of  flowers  and  fresh  air,  of 
clean  bright  workshops  and  elegant  huts,  which 
they  on  crutches  built  for  themselves? 

Masters  of  British  industry,  and  leaders  of  the 
men  and  women  who  slave  to  make  its  wheels 
go  round,  make  a  pilgrimage  to  this  spot,  and 
learn  what  foul  disfigurement  you  have  brought 
on  the  land  of  England  these  last  five  generations ! 
The  natural  loveliness  in  this  Heritage  is  no  greater 
than  the  loveliness  that  used  to  be  in  a  thousand 
places  which  you  have  blotted  out  of  the  book  of 
beauty,  with  your  smuts  and  wheels,  your  wires 
and  welter.  And  to  what  end?  To  manufac- 


196  TATTERDEMALION 

ture  crippled  children,  and  pale,  peaky  little 
Cockneys  whose  nerves  ,are  gone;  (and,  to  be 
sure,  the  railways  and  motor  cars  which  will 
bring  you  here  to  see  them  coming  to  life  once 
more  in  sane  and  natural  surroundings!)  Blind 
and  deaf  and  dumb  industrialism  is  the  accursed 
thing  in  this  land  and  in  all  others. 

If  only  we  could  send  all  our  crippled  soldiers 
to  relearn  life,  in  places  such  as  this;  if,  instead 
of  some  forty  or  fifty,  forty  or  fifty  thousand  could 
begin  again,  under  the  gaze  of  that  white  wind- 
mill !  If  they  could  slough  off  here  not  only  those 
last  horrors,  but  the  dinge  and  drang  of  their 
upbringing  in  towns,  where  wheels  go  round, 
lights  flare,  streets  reek,  and  no  larks  sing,  save 
some  little  blinded  victim  in  .a  cage.  Poor  William 
Blake: 

"  I  will  not  cease  from  fighting,  nor  shall  my  sword  sleep 

in  my  hand, 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem  in  England's  green  and 
pleasant  land!" 

A  long  vigil  his  sword  is  keeping,  while  the 
cloclc  strikes  every  hour  of  the  twenty-four.  We 
have  not  yet  even  laid  Jerusalem's  foundation- 
stone.  Ask  one  of  those  maimed  soldier  boys. 
"I  like  it  here.  Oh,  yes,  it's  very  pleasant  for  a 
change."  But  he  hastens  to  tell  you  that  he 


HERITAGE  197 

goes  in  to  Brighton  every  day  to  his  training 
school,  as  if  that  saved  the  situation;  almost  sur- 
prised he  seems  that  beauty  and  peace  and  good 
air  are  not  intolerable  to  his  town-bred  soul. 
The  towns  have  got  us — nearly  all.  Not  until 
we  let  beauty  and  the  quiet  voice  of  the  fields, 
and  the  scent  of  clover  creep  again  into  our  nerves, 
shall  we  begin  to  build  Jerusalem  and  learn  peace- 
fulness  once  more.  The  countryman  hates  strife; 
it  breaks  his  dream.  And  life  should  have  its 
covering  of  dream — bird's  flight,  bird's  song, 
wind  in  the  ash-trees  and  the  corn,  tall  lilies 
glistening,  the  evening  shadows  slanting  out,  the 
night  murmuring  of  waters.  There  is  no  other 
genuine  dream;  without  it  to  sweeten  all,  life  is 
harsh  and  shrill  and  east-wind  dry,  and  evil 
overruns  her  more  quickly  than  blight  be-gums 
the  rose-tree  or  frost  blackens  fern  of  a  cold  June 
night.  We  elders  are  past  re-making  England, 
but  our  children,  even  these  crippled  children 
here,  may  yet  take  a  hand.  .  .  . 

We  left  the  tinies  to  the  last — all  Montes- 
sorians,  and  some  of  them  little  cripples,  too, 
but  with  cheeks  so  red  that  they  looked  as  if  the 
colour  must  come  off.  They  lived  in  a  house 
past  the  white  mill,  across  the  common;  and 
they  led  us  by  the  hand  down  spotless  corridors 
into  white  dormitories.  The  smile  of  the  prettiest 


198  TATTERDEMALION 

little  maid  of  them  all  was  the  last  thing  one  saw, 
leaving  that  "Heritage"  of  print  frocks  and 
children's  faces,  of  flowers  and  nightingales, 
under  the  lee  of  a  group  of  pines,  the  only  dark 
beauty  in  the  long  sunlight. 

1918. 


XV 
'A  GREEN  HILL  FAR  AWAY' 

Was  it  indeed  only  last  March,  or  in  another 
life,  that  I  climbed  this  green  hill  on  that  day  of 
dolour,  the  Sunday  after  the  last  great  German 
offensive  began?  A  beautiful  sun-warmed  day 
it  was,  when  the  wild  thyme  on  the  southern 
slope  smelled  sweet,  and  the  distant  sea  was  a 
glitter  of  gold.  Lying  on  the  grass,  pressing  my 
cheek  to  its  warmth,  I  tried  to  get  solace  for  that 
new  dread  which  seemed  so  cruelly  unnatural 
after  four  years  of  war-misery. 

'If  only  it  were  all  over!'  I  said  to  myself; 
'and  I  could  come  here,  and  to  all  the  lovely 
places  I  know,  without  this  awful  contraction  of 
the  heart,  and  this  knowledge  that  at  every  tick 
of  my  watch  some  human  body  is  being  mangled 
or  destroyed.  Ah,  if  only  I  could!  Will  there 
never  be  an  end  ? ' 

And  now  there  is  an  end,  and  I  am  up  on  this 
green  hill  once  more,  in  December  sunlight,  with 
the  distant  sea  a  glitter  of  gold.  And  there  is 
no  cramp  in  my  heart,  no  miasma  clinging  to  my 
senses.  Peace!  It  is  still  incredible.  No  more 

199 


200  TATTERDEMALION 

to  hear  with  the  ears  of  the  nerves  the  ceaseless 
roll  of  gunfire,  or  see  with  the  eyes  of  the  nerves 
drowning  men,  gaping  wounds,  and  death.  Peace, 
actually  Peace!  The  war  has  gone  on  so  long 
that  many  of  us  have  forgotten  the  sense  of  out- 
rage and  amazement  we  had,  those  first  days  of 
August,  1914,  when  it  all  began.  But  I  have  not 
forgotten,  nor  ever  shall. 

In  some  of  us — I  think  in-  many  who  could  not 
voice  it — the  war  has  left  chiefly  this  feeling: 
'If  only  I  could  find  a  country  where  men  cared 
less  for  all  that  they  seem  to  care  for,  where  they 
cared  more  for  beauty,  for  nature,  for  being  kindly 
to  each  other.  If  only  I  could  find  that  green 
hill  far  away!'  Of  the  songs  of  Theocritus,  of 
the  life  of  St.  Francis,  there  is  no  more  among  the 
nations  than  there  is  of  dew  on  grass  in  an  east 
wind.  If  we  ever  thought  otherwise,  we  are  dis- 
illusioned now.  Yet  there  is  Peace  again,  and 
the  souls  of  men  fresh-murdered  are  not  flying 
into  our  lungs  with  every  breath  we  draw. 

Each  day  this  thought  of  Peace  becomes  more 
real  and  blessed.  I  can  lie  on  this  green  hill  and 
praise  Creation  that  I  am  alive  in  a  world  of  beauty. 
I  can  go  to  sleep  up  here  with  the  coverlet  of  sun- 
light warm  on  my  body,  and  not  wake  to  that 
old  dull  misery.  I  can  even  dream  with  a  light 
heart,  for  my  fair  dreams  will  not  be  spoiled  by 


'A  GREEN  HILL  FAR  AWAY'      201 

waking,  and  my  bad  dreams  will  be  cured  the 
moment  I  open  my  eyes.  I  can  look  up  at  that 
blue  sky  without  seeing  trailed  across  it  a  mirage 
of  the  long  horror,  a  film  picture  of  all  the  things 
that  have  been  done  by  men  to  men.  At  last  I 
can  gaze  up  at  it,  limpid  and  blue>  without  a 
dogging  melancholy;  and  I  can  gaze  down  at  that 
far  gleam  of  sea,  knowing  that  there  is  no  murk 
of  murder  on  it  any  more. 

And  the  flight  of  birds,  the  gulls  and  rooks  and 
little  brown  wavering  things  which  flit  out  and 
along  the  edge  of  the  chalk-pits,  is  once  more 
refreshment  to  me,  utterly  untempered.  A  merle 
is  singing  in  a  bramble  thicket;  the  dew  has  not 
yet  dried  off  the  bramble  leaves.  A  feather  of  a 
moon  floats  across  the  sky;  the  distance  sends 
forth  homely  murmurs;  the  sun  warms  my  cheeks. 
And  all  of  this  is  pure  joy.  No  hawk  of  dread 
and  horror  keeps  swooping  down  and  bearing  off 
the  little  birds  of  happiness.  No  accusing  con- 
science starts  forth  and  beckons  me  away  from 
pleasure.  Everywhere  is  supreme  and  flawless 
beauty.  Whether  one  looks  at  this  tiny  snail- 
shell,  marvellously  chased  and  marked,  a  very 
elf's  horn  whose  open  mouth  is  coloured  rose;  or 
gazes  down  at  the  flat  land  between  here  and 
the  sea,  wandering  under  the  smile  of  the  after- 
noon sunlight,  seeming  almost  to  be  alive,  hedge- 


202  TATTERDEMALION 

less,  with  its  many  watching  trees,  and  silver 
gulls  hovering  above  the  mushroom-coloured 
'ploughs,'  and  fields  green  in  manifold  hues; 
whether  one  muses  on  this  little  pink  daisy  born 
so  out  of  time,  or  watches  that  valley  of  brown- 
rose-grey  woods,  under  the  drifting  shadows  of 
low-hanging  chalky  clouds — all  is  perfect,  as 
only  Nature  can  be  perfect  on  a  lovely  day,  when 
the  mind  of  him  who  looks  on  her  is  at  rest. 

On  this  green  hill  I  am  nearer  than  I  have 
been  yet  to  realisation  of  the  difference  between 
war  and  peace.  In  our  civilian  lives  hardly  any- 
thing has  been  changed — we  do  not  get  more 
butter  or  more  petrol,  the  garb  and  machinery  of 
war  still  shroud  us,  journals  still  drip  hate;  but 
in  our  spirits  there  is  all  the  difference  between 
gradual  dying  and  gradual  recovery  from  sickness. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  war  a  certain  artist, 
so  one  heard,  shut  himself  away  in  his  house  and 
garden,  taking  in  no  newspaper,  receiving  no 
visitors,  listening  to  no  breath  of  the  war,  seeing 
no  sight  of  it.  So  he  lived,  buried  in  his  work 
and  his  flowers — I  know  not  for  how  long.  Was 
he  wise,  or  did  he  suffer  even  more  than  the  rest 
of  us  who  shut  nothing  away?  Can  man,  in- 
deed, shut  out  the  very  quality  of  his  firmament,. 
or  bar  himself  away  from  the  general  misery  of 
his  species? 


'A  GREEN  HILL  FAR  AWAY'      203 

This  gradual  recovery  of  the  world — this  slow 
reopening  of  the  great  flower,  Life — is  beautiful 
to  feel  and  see.  I  press  my  hand  flat  and  hard 
down  on  those  blades  of  grass,  then  take  it  away, 
and  watch  them  very  slowly  raise  themselves  and 
shake  off  the  bruise.  So  it  is,  and  will  be,  with 
us  for  a  long  time  to  come.  The  cramp  of  war 
was  deep  in  us,  as  an  iron  frost  in  the  earth.  Of 
all  the  countless  minions  who  have  fought  and 
nursed  and  written  and  spoken  and  dug  and 
sewn  and  worked  in  a  thousand  other  ways  to 
help  on  the  business  of  killing,  hardly  any  have 
laboured  in  real  love  of  war.  Ironical,  indeed, 
that  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  poem  written 
these  four  years,  Julian  Grenf ell's  'Into  Battle!' 
was  in  heartfelt  praise  of  fighting!  But  if  one 
could  gather  the  deep  curses  breathed  by  man 
and  woman  upon  war  since  the  first  bugle  was 
blown,  the  dirge  of  them  could  not  be  contained 
in  the  air  which  wraps  this  earth. 

And  yet  the  'green  hill/  where  dwell  beauty 
and  kindliness,  is  still  far  away.  Will  it  ever  be 
nearer?  Men  have  fought  even  on  this  green 
hill  where  I  am  lying.  By  the  rampart  markings 
on  its  chalk  and  grass,  it  has  surely  served  for  an 
encampment.  The  beauty  of  day  and  night,  the 
lark's  song,  the  sweet-scented  growing  things, 
the  rapture  of  health,  and  of  pure  air,  the  majesty 


204  TATTERDEMALION 

of  the  stars,  and  the  gladness  of  sunlight,  of  song 
and  dance  and  simple  friendliness,  have  never 
been  enough  for  men.  We  crave  our  turbulent 
fate.  Can  wars,  then,  ever  cease?  Look  in 
men's  faces,  read  their  writings,  and  beneath 
masks  and  hypocrisies  note  the  restless  creeping 
of  the  tiger  spirit!  There  has  never  been  any- 
thing to  prevent  the  millennium  except  the  nature 
of  the  human  being.  There  are  not  enough  lovers 
of  beauty  among  men.  It  all  comes  back  to 
that.  Not  enough  who  want  the  green  hill  far 
away — who  naturally  hate  disharmony,  and  the 
greed,  ugliness,  restlessness,  cruelty,  which  are 
its  parents  and  its  children. 

Will  there  ever  be  more  lovers  of  beauty  in 
proportion  to  those  who  are  indifferent  to  beauty  ? 
Who  shall  answer  that  question?  Yet  on  the 
answer  depends  peace.  Men  may  have  a  mint 
of  sterling  qualities — be  vigorous,  adventurous, 
brave,  upright,  and  self-sacrificing;  be  preachers 
and  teachers;  keen,  cool-headed,  just,  industrious 
— if  they  have  not  the  love  of  beauty,  they  will 
still  be  making  wars.  Man  is  a  fighting  animal, 
with  sense  of  the  ridiculous  enough  to  know  that 
he  is  a  fool  to  fight,  but  not  sense  of  the  sub- 
lime enough  to  stop  him.  Ah,  well !  we  have 
peace ! 

It  is  happiness  greater  than  I  have  known  for 


<A  GREEN  HILL  FAR  AWAY'      205 

four  years  and  four  months,  to  lie  here  and  let 
that  thought  go  on  its  wings,  quiet  and  free  as 
the  wind  stealing  soft  from  the  sea,  and  blessed 
as  the  sunlight  on  this  green  hill. 

1918. 


PART  II 
OF  PEACE-TIME 


I 

SPINDLEBERRIES 

The  celebrated  painter  Scudamore — whose 
studies  of  Nature  had  been  hung  on  the  line  for 
so  many  years  that  he  had  forgotten  the  days 
when,  not  yet  in  the  Scudamore  manner,  the}' 
depended  from  the  sky — stood  where  his  cousin 
had  left  him  so  abruptly.  His  lips,  between 
comely  grey  moustache  and  comely  pointed  beard, 
wore  a  mortified  smile,  and  he  gazed  rather 
dazedly  at  the  spindleberries  fallen  on  to  the 
flagged  courtyard  from  the  branch  she  had 
brought  to  show  him.  Why  had  she  thrown  up 
her  head  as  if  he  had  struck  her,  and  whisked 
round  so  that  those  dull-pink  berries  quivered  and 
lost  their  rain-drops,  and  four  had  fallen?  He 
had  but  said:  "Charming!  I'd  like  to  use  them!" 
And  she  had  answered:  "God!"  and  rushed 
away.  Alicia  really  was  crazed;  who  would  have 
thought  that  once  she  had  been  so  adorable! 
He  stooped  and  picked  up  the  four  berries — a 
beautiful  colour,  that  dull  pink!  And  from  be- 
low the  coatings  of  success  and  the  Scudamore 
manner  a  little  thrill  came  up;  the  stir  of  emo- 

209 


210  TATTERDEMALION 

tional  vision.  Paint!  What  good!  How  ex- 
press? He  went  across  to  the  low  wall  which 
divided  the  courtyard  of  his  expensively  restored 
and  beautiful  old  house  from  the  first  flood  of  the 
River  Arun  wandering  silvery  in  pale  winter  sun- 
light. Yes,  indeed!  How  express  Nature,  its 
translucence  and  mysterious  unities,  its  mood 
never  the  same  from  hour  to  hour !  Those  brown- 
tufted  rushes  over  there  against  the  gold  grey  of 
light  and  water — those  restless  hovering  white 
gulls!  A  kind  of  disgust  at  his  own  celebrated 
manner  welled  up  within  him — the  disgust  akin 
to  Alicia's  "God!"  Beauty!  What  use— how 
express  it!  Had  she  been  thinking  the  same 
thing? 

He  looked  at  the  four  pink  berries  glistening  on 
the  grey  stone  of  the  wall,  and  memory  stirred. 
What  a  lovely  girl  she  had  been  with  her  grey- 
green  eyes,  shining  under  long  lashes,  the  rose- 
petal  colour  in  her  cheeks  and  the  too-fine  dark 
hair — now  so  very  grey — always  blowing  a  little 
wild.  An  enchanting,  enthusiastic  creature !  He 
remembered,  as  if  it  had  been  but  last  week,  that 
day  when  they  started  from  Arundel  station  by 
the  road  to  Burpham,  when  he  was  twenty-nine 
and  she  twenty-five,  both  of  them  painters  and 
neither  of  them  famed — a  day  of  showers  and  sun- 
light in  the  middle  of  March,  and  Nature  pre- 


SPINDLEBERRIES  211 

paring  for  full  Spring !  How  they  had  chattered 
at  first;  and  when  their  arms  touched,  how  he 
had  thrilled,  and  the  colour  had  deepened  in  her 
wet  cheeks;  and  then,  gradually,  they  had  grown 
silent;  a  wonderful  walk,  which  seemed  leading  so 
surely  to  a  more  wonderful  end.  They  had 
wandered  round  through  the  village  and  down, 
past  the  chalk-pit  and  Jacob's  ladder,  onto  the 
field  path  and  so  to  the  river-bank.  And  he  had 
taken  her  ever  so  gently  round  the  waist,  still 
silent,  waiting  for  that  moment  when  his  heart 
would  leap  out  of  him  in  words  and  hers — he  was 
sure — would  leap  to  meet  it.  The  path  entered 
a  thicket  of  blackthorn,  with  a  few  primroses 
close  to  the  little  river  running  full  and  gentle. 
The  last  drops  of  a  shower  were  falling,  but  the 
sun  had  burst  through,  and  the  sky  above  the 
thicket  was  cleared  to  the  blue  of  speedwell 
flowers.  Suddenly  she  had  stopped  and  cried: 
"  Look,  Dick !  Oh,  look !  It's  heaven ! "  A  high 
bush  of  blackthorn  was  lifted  there,  starry  white 
against  the  blue  and  that  bright  cloud.  It  seemed 
to  sing,  it  was  so  lovely;  the  whole  of  Spring  was 
in  it.  But  the  sight  of  her  ecstatic  face  had 
broken  down  all  his  restraint;  and  tightening  his 
arm  round  her,  he  had  kissed  her  lips.  He  re- 
membered still  the  expression  of  her  face,  like  a 
child's  startled  out  of  sleep.  She  had  gone  rigid, 


212  TATTERDEMALION 

gasped,  started  away  from  him;  quivered  and 
gulped,  and  broken  suddenly  into  sobs.  Then, 
slipping  from  his  arm,  she  had  fled.  He  had 
stood  at  first,  amazed  and  hurt,  utterly  bewil- 
dered; then,  recovering  a  little,  had  hunted  for 
her  full  half  an  hour  before  at  last  he  found  her 
sitting  on  wet  grass,  with  a  stony  look  on  her  face. 
He  had  said  nothing,  and  she  nothing,  except  to 
murmur:  "Let's  go  on;  we  shall  miss  our  train!" 
And  all  the  rest  of  that  day  and  the  day  after, 
until  they  parted,  he  had  suffered  from  the  feel- 
ing of  having  tumbled  down  off  some  high  perch 
in  her  estimation.  He  had  not  liked  it  at  all;  it 
had  made  him  very  angry.  Never  from  that 
day  to  this  had  he  thought  of  it  as  anything  but 
a  piece  of  wanton  prudery.  Had  it — had  it  been 
something  else? 

He  looked  at  the  four  pink  berries,  and,  as  if 
they  had  uncanny  power  to  turn  the  wheel  of 
memory,  he  saw  another  vision  of  his  cousin  five 
years  later.  He  was  married  by  then,  and  already 
hung  on  the  line.  With  his  wife  he  had  gone  down 
to  Alicia's  country  cottage.  A  summer  night, 
just  dark  and  very  warm.  After  many  exhor- 
tations she  had  brought  into  the  little  drawing- 
room  her  last  finished  picture.  He  could  see  her 
now  placing  it  where  the  light  fell,  her  tall  slight 
form  already  rather  sharp  and  meagre,  as  the 


SPINDLEBERRIES  213 

figures  of  some  women  grow  at  thirty,  if  they  are 
not  married;  the  nervous,  fluttering  look  on  her 
charming  face,  as  though  she  could  hardly  bear 
this  inspection;  the  way  she  raised  her  shoulder 
just  a  little  as  if  to  ward  off  an  expected  blow  of 
condemnation.  No  need!  It  had  been  a  beau- 
tiful thing,  a  quite  surprisingly  beautiful  study 
of  night.  He  remembered  with  what  a  really 
jealous  ache  he  had  gazed  at  it — a  better  thing 
than  he  had  ever  done  himself.  And,  frankly, 
he  had  said  so.  Her  eyes  had  shone  with  pleasure. 
"Do  you  really  like  it?  I  tried  so  hard !" 
"The  day  you  show  that,  my  dear,"  he  had 
said,  "your  name's  made!"  She  had  clasped 
her  hands  and  simply  sighed:  "Oh,  Dick!"  He 
had  felt  quite  happy  in  her  happiness,  and  pres- 
ently the  three  of  them  had  taken  their  chairs 
out,  beyond  the  curtains,  on  to  the  dark  veran- 
dah, had  talked  a  little,  then  somehow  fallen 
silent.  A  wonderful  warm,  black,  grape-bloom 
night,  exquisitely  gracious  and  inviting;  the  stars 
very  high  and  white,  the  flowers  glimmering  in 
the  garden-beds,  and  against  the  deep,  dark  blue, 
roses  hanging,  unearthly,  stained  with  beauty. 
There  was  a  scent  of  honeysuckle,  he  remem- 
bered, and  many  moths  came  fluttering  by  towards 
the  tall  narrow  chink  of  light  between  the  cur- 
tains. Alicia  had  sat  leaning  forward,  elbows  on 


214  TATTERDEMALION 

knees,  ears  buried  in  her  hands.  Probably  they 
were  silent  because  she  sat  like  that.  Once  he 
heard  her  whisper  to  herself:  "Lovely,  lovely! 
Oh,  God!  How  lovely!"  His  wife,  feeling  the 
dew,  had  gone  in,  and  he  had  followed;  Alicia  had 
not  seemed  to  notice.  But  when  she  too  came  in, 
her  eyes  were  glistening  with  tears.  She  said 
something  about  bed  in  a  queer  voice;  they  had 
taken  candles  and  gone  up.  Next  morning, 
going  to  her  little  studio  to  give  her  advice  about 
that  picture,  he  had  been  literally  horrified  to  see 
it  streaked  with  lines  of  Chinese  white — Alicia, 
standing  before  it,  was  dashing  her  brush  in 
broad  smears  across  and  across.  She  heard  him 
and  turned  round.  There  was  a  hard  red  spot 
in  either  cheek,  and  she  said  in  a  quivering  voice: 
"It  was  blasphemy.  That's  all!"  And  turning 
her  back  on  him,  she  had  gone  on  smearing  it 
with  Chinese  white.  Without  a  word,  he  had 
turned  tail  in  simple  disgust.  Indeed,  so  deep  had 
been  his  vexation  at  that  wanton  destruction  of  the 
best  thing  she  had  ever  done,  or  was  ever  likely 
to  do,  that  he  had  avoided  her  for  years.  He  had 
always  had  a  horror  of  eccentricity.  To  have 
planted  her  foot  firmly  on  the  ladder  of  fame  and 
then  deliberately  kicked  it  away;  to  have  wan- 
tonly foregone  this  chance  of  making  money — 
for  she  had  but  a  mere  pittance !  It  had  seemed 


SPINDLEBERRIES  215 

to  him  really  too  exasperating,  a  thing  only  to 
be  explained  by  tapping  one's  forehead.  Every 
now  and  then  he  still  heard  of  her,  living  down 
there,  spending  her  days  out  in  the  woods  and 
fields,  and  sometimes  even  her  nights,  they  said, 
and  steadily  growing  poorer  and  thinner  and  more 
eccentric;  becoming,  in  short,  impossibly  difficult, 
as  only  Englishwomen  can.  People  would  speak 
of  her  as  "such  a  dear,"  and  talk  of  her  charm, 
but  always  with  that  shrug  which  is  hard  to  bear 
when  applied  to  one's  relations.  What  she  did 
with  the  productions  of  her  brush  he  never  in- 
quired, too  disillusioned  by  that  experience. 
Poor  Alicia ! 

The  pink  berries  glowed  on  the  grey  stone,  and 
he  had  yet  another  memory.  A  family  occasion 
when  Uncle  Martin  Scudamore  departed  this 
life,  and  they  all  went  up  to  bury  him  and  hear 
his  Will.  The  old  chap,  whom  they  had  looked 
on  as  a  bit  of  a  disgrace,  money-grubbing  up  in 
the  little  grey  Yorkshire  town  which  owed  its 
rise  to  his  factory,  was  expected  to  make  amends 
by  his  death,  for  he  had  never  married — too  sunk 
in  Industry,  apparently,  to  have  the  time.  By 
tacit  agreement,  his  nephews  and  nieces  had 
selected  the  Inn  at  Bolton  Abbey,  nearest  beauty 
spot,  for  their  stay.  They  had  driven  six  miles 
to  the  funeral  in  three  carriages.  Alicia  had 


216  TATTERDEMALION 

gone  with  him  and  his  brother,  the  solicitor. 
In  her  plain  black  clothes  she  looked  quite  charm- 
ing, in  spite  of  the  silver  threads  already  thick  in 
her  fine  dark  hair,  loosened  by  the  moor  wind. 
She  had  talked  of  painting  to  him  with  all  her  old 
enthusiasm,  and  her  eyes  had  seemed  to  linger 
on  his  face  as  if  she  still  had  a  little  weakness  for 
him.  He  had  quite  enjoyed  that  drive.  They 
had  come  rather  abruptly  on  the  small  grimy 
town  clinging  to  the  river-banks,  with  old  Martin's 
long  yellow-brick  house  dominating  it,  about 
two 'hundred  yards  above  the  mills.  Suddenly 
under  the  rug  he  felt  Alicia's  hand  seize  his  with 
a  sort  of  desperation,  for  all  the  world  as  if  she 
were  clinging  to  something  to  support  her.  In- 
deed, he  was  sure  she  did  not  know  it  was  his 
hand  she  squeezed.  The  cobbled  streets,  the 
muddy-looking  water,  the  dingy,  staring  factories, 
the  yellow  staring  house,  the  little  dark-clothed, 
dreadfully  plain  work-people,  all  turned  out  to 
do  a  last  honour  to  their  creator;  the  hideous  new 
grey  church,  the  dismal  service,  the  brand-new 
tombstones — and  all  of  a  glorious  autumn  day! 
It  was  inexpressibly  sordid — too  ugly  for  words ! 
Afterwards  the  Will  was  read  to  them,  seated  de- 
corously on  bright  mahogany  chairs  in  the  yellow 
mansion;  a  very  satisfactory  Will,  distributing 
in  perfectly  adjusted  portions,  to  his  own  kins- 


SPINDLEBERRIES  217 

folk  and  nobody  else,  a  very  considerable  wealth. 
Scudamore  had  listened  to  it  dreamily,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  an  oily  picture,  thinking:  "My 
God!  What  a  thing!"  and  longing  to  be  back 
in  the  carriage  smoking  a  cigar  to  take  the  reek 
of  black  clothes,  and  sherry — sherry ! — out  of  his 
nostrils.  He  happened  to  look  at  Alicia.  Her 
eyes  were  closed;  her  lips,  always  sweet-looking, 
quivered  amusedly.  And  at  that  very  moment 
the  Will  came  to  her  name.  He  saw  those  eyes 
open  wide,  and  marked  a  beautiful  pink  flush, 
quite  like  that  of  old  days,  come  into  her  thin 
cheeks.  "Splendid !"  he  had  thought;  "it's  really 
jolly  for  her.  I  am  glad.  Now  she  won't  have 
to  pinch.  Splendid!"  He  shared  with  her  to 
the  full  the  surprised  relief  showing  in  her  still 
beautiful  face. 

All  the  way  home  in  the  carriage  he  felt  at 
least  as  happy  over  her  good  fortune  as  over  his 
own,  which  had  been  substantial.  He  took  her 
hand  under  the  rug  and  squeezed  it,  and  she  an- 
swered with  a  long,  gentle  pressure,  quite  unlike 
the  clutch  when  they  were  driving  in.  That 
same  evening  he  strolled  out  to  where  the  river 
curved  below  the  Abbey.  The  sun  had  not  quite 
set,  and  its  last  smoky  radiance  slanted  into  the 
burnished  autumn  woods.  Some  white-faced 
Herefords  were  grazing  in  lush  grass,  the  river 


218  TATTERDEMALION 

rippled  and  gleamed,  all  over  golden  scales. 
About  that  scene  was  the  magic  which  has  so 
often  startled  the  hearts  of  painters,  the  wistful 
gold — the  enchantment  of  a  dream.  For  some 
minutes  he  had  gazed  with  delight  which  had  in 
it  a  sort  of  despair.  A  little  crisp  rustle  ran  along 
the  bushes;  the  leaves  fluttered,  then  hung  quite 
still.  And  he  heard  a  voice — Alicia's — speaking. 
"My  lovely,  lovely  world!"  And  moving  for- 
ward a  step,  he  saw  her  standing  on  the  river- 
bank,  braced  against  the  trunk  of  a  birch-tree, 
her  head  thrown  back,  and  her  arms  stretched 
wide  apart  as  though  to  clasp  the  lovely  world 
she  had  apostrophised.  To  have  gone  up  to  her 
would  have  been  like  breaking  up  a  lovers'  in- 
terview, and  he  turned  round  instead  and  went 
away. 

A  week  later  he  heard  from  his  brother  that 
Alicia  had  refused  her  legacy.  "I  don't  want 
it,"  her  letter  had  said  simply,  "I  couldn't  bear 
to  take  it.  Give  it  to  those  poor  people  who  live 
in  that  awful  place."  Really  eccentricity  could 
go  no  further !  They  decided  to  go  down  and  see 
her.  Such  mad  neglect  of  her  own  good  must 
not  be  permitted  without  some  effort  to  prevent 
it.  They  found  her  very  thin,  and  charming; 
humble,  but  quite  obstinate  in  her  refusal.  "Oh ! 
I  couldn't,  really!  I  should  be  so  unhappy. 


SPINDLEBERRIES  219 

Those  poor  little  stunted  people  who  made  it  all 
for  him!  That  little,  awful  town!  I  simply 
couldn't  be  reminded.  Don't  talk  about  it, 
please.  I'm  quite  all  right  as  I  am."  They  had 
threatened  her  with  lurid  pictures  of  the  work- 
house and  a  destitute  old  age.  To  no  purpose, 
she  would  not  take  the  money.  She  had  been 
forty  when  she  refused  that  aid  from  heaven — 
forty,  and  already  past  any  hope  of  marriage. 
For  though  Scudamore  had  never  known  for  cer- 
tain that  she  had  ever  wished  or  hoped  for  mar- 
riage, he  had  his  theory — that  all  her  eccentricity 
came  from  wasted  sexual  instinct.  This  last  folly 
had  seemed  to  him  monstrous  enough  to  be  pa- 
thetic, and  he  no  longer  avoided  her.  Indeed, 
he  would  often  walk  over  to  tea  in  her  little 
hermitage.  With  Uncle  Martin's  money  he  had 
bought  and  restored  the  beautiful  old  house  over 
the  River  Arun,  and  was  now  only  five  miles  from 
Alicia's  across  country.  She  too  would  come 
tramping  over  at  all  hours,  floating  in  with  wild 
flowers  or  ferns,  which  she  would  put  into  water 
the  moment  she  arrived.  She  had  ceased  to  wear 
hats,  and  had  by  now  a  very  doubtful  reputation 
for  sanity  about  the  countryside.  This  was  the 
period  when  Watts  was  on  every  painter's  tongue, 
and  he  seldom  saw  Alicia  without  a  disputation 
concerning  that  famous  symbolist.  Personally, 


220  TATTERDEMALION 

he  had  no  use  for  Watts,  resenting  his  faulty 
drawing  and  crude  allegories,  but  Alicia  always 
maintained  with  her  extravagant  fervour  that  he 
was  great  because  he  tried  to  paint  the  soul  of 
things.  She  especially  loved  a  painting  called 
"Iris" — a  female  symbol  of  the  rainbow,  which 
indeed  in  its  floating  eccentricity  had  a  certain 
resemblance  to  herself.  "Of  course  he  failed," 
she  would  say;  "he  tried  for  the  impossible  and 
went  on  trying  all  his  life.  Oh!  I  can't  bear 
your  rules,  and  catchwords,  Dick;  what's  the 
good  of  them!  Beauty's  too  big,  too  deep!" 
Poor  Alicia!  She  was  sometimes  very  wearing. 
He  never  knew  quite  how  it  came  about  that 
she  went  abroad  with  them  to  Dauphine  in  the 
autumn  of  1904 — a  rather  disastrous  business — 
never  again  would  he  take  anyone  travelling  who 
did  not  know  how  to  come  in  out  of  the  cold. 
It  was  a  painter's  country,  and  he  had  hired  a 
little  chateau  in  front  of  the  Glandaz  mountain — 
himself,  his  wife,  their  eldest  girl,  and  Alicia. 
The  adaptation  of  his  famous  manner  to  that 
strange  scenery,  its  browns  and  French  greys  and 
filmy  blues,  so  preoccupied  him  that  he  had  scant 
time  for  becoming  intimate  with  these  hills  and 
valleys.  From  the  little  gravelled  terrace  in 
front  of  the  annex,  out  of  which  he  had  made  a 
studio,  there  was  an  absorbing  view  over  the 


SPINDLEBERRIES  221 

pantiled  old  town  of  Die.  It  glistened  below  in 
the  early  or  late  sunlight,  flat-roofed  and  of  pink- 
ish-yellow, with  the  dim,  blue  River  Drome  cir- 
cling one  side,  and  cut,  dark  cypress-trees  dotting 
the  vineyarded  slopes.  And  he  painted  it  con- 
tinually. What  Alicia  did  with  herself  they  none 
of  them  very  much  knew,  except  that  she  would 
come  in  and  talk  ecstatically  of  things  and  beasts 
and  people  she  had  seen.  One  favourite  haunt 
of  hers  they  did  visit,  a  ruined  monastery  high  up 
in  the  amphitheatre  of  the  Glandaz  mountain. 
They  had  their  lunch  up  there,  a  very  charming 
and  remote  spot,  where  the  watercourses  and 
ponds  and  chapel  of  the  old  monks  were  still 
visible,  though  converted  by  the  farmer  to  his 
use.  Alicia  left  them  abruptly  in  the  middle  of 
their  praises,  and  they  had  not  seen  her  again 
till  they  found  her  at  home  when  they  got  back. 
It  was  almost  as  if  she  had  resented  laudation  of 
her  favourite  haunt.  She  had  brought  in  with 
her  a  great  bunch  of  golden  berries,  of  which 
none  of  them  knew  the  name;  berries  almost  as 
beautiful  as  these  spindleberries  glowing  on  the 
stone  of  the  wall.  And  a  fourth  memory  of  Alicia 
came. 

Christmas  Eve,  a  sparkling  frost,  and  every 
tree  round  the  little  chateau  rimed  so  that  they 
shone  in  the  starlight,  as  though  dowered  with 


222  TATTERDEMALION 

cherry  blossoms.  Never  were  more  stars  in  clear 
black  sky  above  the  whitened  earth.  Down  in 
the  little  town  a  few  faint  points  of  yellow  light 
twinkled  in  the  mountain  wind,  keen  as  a  razor's 
edge.  A  fantastically  lovely  night — quite  "Japa- 
nese," but  cruelly  cold.  Five  minutes  on  the 
terrace  had  been  enough  for  all  of  them  except 
Alicia.  She — unaccountable,  crazy  creature — 
would  not  come  in.  Twice  he  had  gone  out  to 
her,  with  commands,  entreaties,  and  extra  wraps; 
the  third  time  he  could  not  find  her,  she  had 
deliberately  avoided  his  onslaught  and  slid  off 
somewhere  to  keep  this  mad  vigil  by  frozen  star- 
light. When  at  last  she  did  come  in  she  reeled 
as  if  drunk.  They  tried  to  make  her  really 
drunk,  to  put  warmth  back  into  her.  No  good ! 
In  two  days  she  was  down  with  double  pneumonia; 
it  was  two  months  before  she  was  up  again — a 
very  shadow  of  herself.  There  had  never  been 
much  health  in  her  since  then.  She  floated  like 
a  ghost  through  life,  a  crazy  ghost,  who  still 
would  steal  away,  goodness  knew  where,  and 
come  in  with  a  flush  in  her  withered  cheeks,  and 
her  grey  hair  wild  blown,  carrying  her  spoil — 
some  flower,  some  leaf,  some  tiny  bird,  or  little 
soft  rabbit.  She  never  painted  now,  never  even 
talked  of  it.  They  had  made  her  give  up  her 
cottage  and  come  to  live  with  them,  literally 


SPIXDLEBERRIES  223 

afraid  that  she  would  starve  herself  to  death  in 
her  forgetfulness  of  everything.  These  spindle- 
berries  even !  Why,  probably  she  had  been  right 
up  this  morning  to  that  sunny  chalk-pit  in  the 
lew  of  the  Downs  to  get  them,  seven  miles  there 
and  back,  when  you  wouldn't  think  she  could 
walk  seven  hundred  yards,  and  as  likely  as  not 
had  lain  there  on  the  dewy  grass,  looking  up  at 
the  sky,  as  he  had  come  on  her  sometimes.  Poor 
Alicia !  And  once  he  had  been  within  an  ace  of 
marrying  her!  A  life  spoiled!  By  what,  if  not 
by  love  of  beauty!  But  who  would  have  ever 
thought  that  the  intangible  could  wreck  a  woman, 
deprive  her  of  love,  marriage,  motherhood,  of 
fame,  of  wealth,  of  health !  And  yet — by  George  1 
—it  had ! 

Scudamore  flipped  the  four  pink  berries  off  the 
wall.  The  radiance  and  the  meandering  milky 
waters;  that  swan  against  the  brown  tufted 
rushes;  those  far,  filmy  Downs — there  was  beauty ! 
Beauty !  But,  damn  it  all — moderation !  Mod- 
eration !  And,  turning  his  back  on  that  prospect, 
which  he  had  painted  so  many  times,  in  his  cele- 
brated manner,  he  went  in,  and  up  the  expen- 
sively restored  staircase  to  his  studio.  It  had 
great  windows  on  three  sides,  and  perfect  means 
for  regulating  light.  Unfinished  studies  melted 
into  walls  so  subdued  that  they  looked  like  atmos- 


224  TATTERDEMALION 

phere.  There  were  no  completed  pictures — they 
sold  too  fast.  As  he  walked  over  to  his  easel, 
his  eye  was  caught  by  a  spray  of  colour — the 
branch  of  spindleberries  set  in  water,  ready  for 
him  to  use,  just  where  the  pale  sunlight  fell,  so 
that  their  delicate  colour  might  glow  and  the 
few  tiny  drops  of  moisture  still  clinging  to  them 
shine.  For  a  second  he  saw  Alicia  herself  as  she 
must  have  looked,  setting  them  there,  her  trans- 
parent hands  hovering,  her  eyes  shining,  that 
grey  hair  of  hers  all  fine  and  loose.  The  vision 
vanished!  But  what  had  made  her  bring  them 
after  that  horrified  "God!"  when  he  spoke  of 
using  them?  Was  it  her  way  of  saying:  "For- 
give me  for  being  rude!"  Really  she  was  pa- 
thetic, that  poor  devotee!  The  spindleberries 
glowed  in  their  silver-lustre  jug,  sprayed  up 
against  the  sunlight.  They  looked  triumphant 
— as  well  they  might,  who  stood  for  that  which 
had  ruined — or,  was  it,  saved  ? — a  life !  Alicia ! 
She  had  made  a  pretty  mess  of  it,  and  yet  who 
knew  what  secret  raptures  she  had  felt  with  her 
subtle  lover,  Beauty,  by  starlight  and  sunlight 
and  moonlight,  in  the  fields  and  woods,  on  the 
hilltops,  and  by  riverside!  Flowers,  and  the 
flight  of  birds,  and  the  ripple  of  the  wind,  and  all 
the  shifting  play  of  light  and  colour  which  made 
a  man  despair  when  he  wanted  to  use  them; 


SPINDLEBERRIES  225 

she  had  taken  them,  hugged  them  to  her  with  no 
afterthought,  and  been  happy!  Who  could  say 
that  she  had  missed  the  prize  of  life  ?  Who  could 
say  it?  ...  Spindleberries !  A  bunch  of  spin- 
dleberries  to  set  such  doubts  astir  in  him !  Why, 
what  was  beauty  but  just  the  extra  value  which 
certain  forms  and  colours,  blended,  gave  to 
things — just  the  extra  value  hi  the  human  mar- 
ket! Nothing  else  on  earth,  nothing!  And  the 
spindleberries  glowed  against  the  sunlight,  deli- 
cate, remote ! 

Taking  his  palette,  he  mixed  crimson  lake, 
white,  and  ultramarine.  What  was  that?  Who 
sighed,  away  out  there  behind  him?  Nothing! 

"Damn  it  all!"  he  thought;  "this  is  childish. 
This  is  as  bad  as  Alicia!"  And  he  set  to  work 
to  paint  in  his  celebrated  manner — spindle- 
berries. 

1918. 


II 

EXPECTATIONS 

Not  many  years  ago  a  couple  were  living  in 
the  South  of  England  whose  name  was  Wotchett 
— Ralph  and  Eileen  Wotchett;  a  curious  name, 
derived,  Ralph  asserted,  from  a  Saxon  Thegn 
called  Otchar  mentioned  in  Domesday,  or  at  all 
events — when  search  of  the  book  had  proved  vain 
— on  the  edge  of  that  substantial  record. 

He — possibly  the  thirtieth  descendant  of  the 
Thegn — was  close  on  six  feet  in  height  and  thin, 
with  thirsty  eyes,  and  a  smile  which  had  fixed 
itself  in  his  cheeks,  so  on  the  verge  of  appearing 
was  it.  His  hair  waved,  and  was  of  a  dusty 
shade  bordering  on  grey.  His  wife,  of  the  same 
age  and  nearly  the  same  height  as  himself,  was 
of  sanguine  colouring  and  a  Cornish  family, 
which  had  held  land  in  such  a  manner  that  it 
had  nearly  melted  in  their  grasp.  All  that  had 
come  to  Eileen  was  a  reversion,  on  the  mortgage- 
able value  of  which  she  and  Ralph  had  been 
living  for  some  tune.  Ralph  Wotchett  also  had 
expectations.  By  profession  he  was  an  architect, 
but  perhaps  because  of  his  expectations,  he  had 

227 


228  TATTERDEMALION 

always  had  bad  luck.  The  involutions  of  the 
reasons  why  his  clients  died,  became  insolvent, 
abandoned  their  projects,  or  otherwise  failed  to 
come  up  to  the  scratch  were  followed  by  him 
alone  in  the  full  of  their  maze-like  windings. 
The  house  they  inhabited,  indeed,  was  one  of 
those  he  had  designed  for  a  client,  but  the  'fat 
chough'  had  refused  to  go  into  it  for  some  un- 
accountable reason;  he  and  Eileen  were  only 
perching  there,  however,  on  the  edge  of  settling 
down  in  some  more  permanent  house  when  they 
came  into  their  expectations. 

Considering  the  vicissitudes  and  disappoint- 
ments of  their  life  together,  it  was  remarkable 
how  certain  they  remained  that  they  would  at 
last  cross  the  bar  and  reach  the  harbour  of  com- 
fortable circumstance.  They  had,  one  may  sup- 
pose, expectations  in  their  blood.  The  germ  of 
getting  *  something  for  nothing'  had  infected  their 
systems,  so  that,  though  they  were  not  selfish 
or  greedy  people,  and  well  knew  how  to  rough 
it,  they  dreamed  so  of  what  they  had  not,  that 
they  continually  got  rid  of  what  they  had  in 
order  to  obtain  more  of  it.  If  for  example  Ralph 
received  an  order,  he  felt  so  strongly  that  this 
was  the  chance  of  his  life  if  properly  grasped, 
that  he  would  almost  as  a  matter  of  course  in- 
crease and  complicate  the  project  till  it  became 


EXPECTATIONS  229 

unworkable,  or  in  his  zeal  omit  some  vital  cal- 
culation such  as  a  rise  in  the  price  of  bricks; 
nor  would  anyone  be  more  surprised  than  he  at 
this,  or  more  certain  that  all  connected  with  the 
matter  had  been  'fat  choughs'  except — himself. 
On  such  occasions  Eileen  would  get  angry,  but 
if  anyone  suggested  that  Ralph  had  overreached 
himself,  she  would  get  still  angrier.  She  was 
very  loyal,  and  fortunately  rather  flyaway  both 
in  mind  and  body;  before  long  she  always  joined 
him  in  his  feeling  that  the  whole  transaction  had 
been  just  the  usual  'skin-game7  on  the  part  of 
Providence  to  keep  them  out  of  their  expectations. 
It  was  the  same  in  domestic  life.  If  Ralph  had 
to  eat  a  breakfast,  which  would  be  almost  every 
morning,  he  had  so  many  and  such  imaginative 
ways  of  getting  from  it  a  better  breakfast  than 
was  in  it,  that  he  often  remained  on  the  edge  of 
it,  as  it  were.  He  had  special  methods  of  cook- 
ing, so  as  to  extract  from  everything  a  more  than 
ordinary  flavour,  and  these  took  all  the  time  that 
he  would  have  to  eat  the  results  in.  Coffee  he 
would  make  with  a  whole  egg,  shell  and  all, 
stirred  in;  it  had  to  be  left  on  the  hob  for  an 
incomparable  time,  and  he  would  start  to  catch 
his  train  with  his  first  cup  in  his  hand;  Eileen 
would  have  to  run  after  him  and  take  it  away. 
They  were,  in  fact,  rather  like  a  kitten  which 


230  TATTERDEMALION 

knows  it  has  a  tail,  and  will  fly  round  and  round 
all  day  with  the  expectation  of  catching  that  de- 
sirable appendage.  Sometimes  indeed,  by  sheer 
perseverance,  of  which  he  had  a  great  deal  in  a 
roundabout  way,  Ralph  would  achieve  something, 
but,  when  this  happened,  something  else,  not 
foreseen  by  him,  had  always  happened  first, 
which  rendered  that  accomplishment  nugatory 
and  left  it  expensive  on  his  hands.  Neverthe- 
less they  retained  their  faith  that  some  day  they 
would  get  ahead  of  Providence  and  come  into  their 
own. 

;  In  view  of  not  yet  having  come  into  their  ex- 
pectations they  had  waited  to  have  children; 
but  two  had  rather  unexpectedly  been  born. 
The  babes  had  succumbed,  however,  one  to 
preparation  for  betterment  too  ingenious  to  be 
fulfilled,  the  other  to  fulfilment,  itself,  a  special 
kind  of  food  having  been  treated  so  ingeniously 
that  it  had  undoubtedly  engendered  poison. 
And  they  remained  childless. 

They  were  about  fifty  when  Ralph  received 
one  morning  a  solicitor's  letter  announcing  the 
death  of  his  godmother,  Aunt  Lispeth.  When  he 
read  out  the  news  they  looked  at  their  plates  a 
full  minute  without  speaking.  Their  expecta- 
tions had  matured.  At  last  they  were  to  come 
into  something  in  return  for  nothing.  Aunt 


EXPECTATIONS  231 

Lispeth,  who  had  latterly  lived  at  Ipswich  in  a 
house  which  he  had  just  not  built  for  her,  was 
an  old  maid.  They  had  often  discussed  what 
she  would  leave  them — though  in  no  mean  or 
grasping  spirit,  for  they  did  not  grudge  the  'poor 
old  girl'  her  few  remaining  years,  however  they 
might  feel  that  she  was  long  past  enjoying  herself. 
The  chance  would  come  to  them  some  time,  and 
when  it  did  of  course  must  be  made  the  best  of. 
Then  Eileen  said: 

"You  must  go  down  at  once,  Ralph!" 
Donning  black,  Ralph  set  off  hurriedly,  and  just 
missed  his  train;  he  caught  one,  however,  in  the 
afternoon,  and  arrived  that  evening  in  Ipswich. 
It  was  October,  drizzling  and  dark;  the  last  cab 
moved  out  as  he  tried  to  enter  it,  for  he  had  been 
detained  by  his  ticket  which  he  had  put  for  extra 
readiness  in  his  glove,  and  forgotten — as  if  the 
ticket  collector  couldn't  have  seen  it  there,  the 
'fat  chough!'  He  walked  up  to  his  Aunt's 
house,  and  was  admitted  to  a  mansion  where  a 
dinner-party  was  going  on.  It  was  impossible 
to  persuade  the  servant  that  this  was  his  Aunt's, 
so  he  was  obliged  to  retire  to  a  hotel  and  wire 
to  Eileen  to  send  him  the  right  address — the  'fat 
choughs'  in  the  street  did  not  seem  to  know  it. 
He  got  her  answer  the  following  mid-day,  and 
going  to  the  proper  number,  found  the  darkened 


232  TATTERDEMALION 

house.  The  two  servants  who  admitted  him 
described  the  manner  of  their  mistress's  death, 
and  showed  him  up  into  her  room.  Aunt  Lispeth 
had  been  laid  out  daintily.  Ralph  contemplated 
her  with  the  smile  which  never  moved  from  his 
cheeks,  and  with  a  sort  of  awe  in  his  thirsty  eyes. 
The  poor  old  girl!  How  thin,  how  white!  It 
had  been  tune  she  went !  A  little  stiffened  twist 
in  her  neck,  where  her  lean  head  had  fallen  to 
one  side  at  the  last,  had  not  been  set  quite  straight; 
and  there  seemed  the  ghost  of  an  expression  on 
her  face,  almost  cynical;  by  looking  closer  he  saw 
that  it  came  from  a  gap  in  the  white  lashes  of  one 
eye,  giving  it  an  air  of  not  being  quite  closed,  as 
though  she  were  trying  to  wink  at  him.  He 
went  out  rather  hastily,  and  ascertaining  that  the 
funeral  was  fixed  for  noon  next  day,  paid  a  visit 
to  the  solicitor. 

There  he  was  told  that  the  lawyer  himself  was 
sole  executor,  and  he — Ralph — residuary  legatee. 
He  could  not  help  a  feeling  of  exultation,  for  he 
and  Eileen  were  at  that  time  particularly  hard 
pressed.  He  restrained  it,  however,  and  went  to 
his  hotel  to  write  to  her.  He  received  a  tele- 
gram in  answer  next  morning  at  ten  o'clock: 
'For  goodness'  sake  leave  all  details  to  lawyer, 
Eileen/  which  he  thought  very  peculiar.  He 
lunched  with  the  lawyer  after  the  funeral,  and 


EXPECTATIONS  233 

they  opened  his  Aunt's  will.  It  was  quite  short 
and  simple,  made  certain  specific  bequests  of  lace 
and  jewellery,  left  a  hundred  pounds  to  her  exec- 
utor the  lawyer,  and  the  rest  of  her  property  to 
her  nephew  Ralph  Wotchett.  The  lawyer  pro- 
posed to  advertise  for  debts  in  the  usual  way, 
and  Ralph  with  considerable  control '  confined 
himself  to  urging  all  speed  in  the  application  for 
Probate,  and  disposal  of  the  estate.  He  caught 
a  late  train  back  to  Eileen.  She  received  his 
account  distrustfully;  she  was  sure  he  had  put 
his  finger  in  the  pie,  and  if  he  had  it  would  all 
go  wrong.  Well,  if  he  hadn't,  he  soon  would! 
It  was  really  as  if  loyalty  had  given  way  in  her 
now  that  their  expectations  were  on  the  point  of 
being  realised. 

They  had  often  discussed  his  Aunt's  income, 
but  they  went  into  it  again  that  night,  to  see 
whether  it  could  not  by  fresh  investment  be  in- 
creased. It  was  derived  from  Norwich1  and 
Birmingham  Corporation  Stocks,  and  Ralph 
proved  that  by  going  into  industrial  concerns  the 
four  hundred  a  year  could  quite  safely  be  made 
into  six.  Eileen  agreed  that  this  would  be  a 
good  thing  to  do,  but  nothing  definite  was  de- 
cided. Now  that  they  had  come  into  money  they 
did  not  feel  so  inclined  to  move  their  residence, 
though  both  felt  that  they  might  increase  their 


234:  TATTERDEMALION 

scale  of  living,  which  had  lately  been  at  a  dis- 
tressingly low  ebb.  They  spoke,  too,  about  the 
advisability  of  a  small  car.  Ralph  knew  of  one 
— a  second-hand  Ford — to  be  had  for  a  song. 
They  ought  not — he  thought — to  miss  the  chance. 
He  would  take  occasion  to  meet  the  owner  casually 
and  throw  out  a  feeler.  It  would  not  do  to  let 
the  fellow  know  that  there  was  any  money 
coming  to  them,  or  he  would  put  the  price  up  for 
a  certainty.  In  fact  it  would  be  better  to  secure 
the  car  before  the  news  got  about.  He  secured 
it  a  few  days  later  for  eighty  pounds,  including 
repairs,  which  would  take  about  a  month.  A 
letter  from  the  lawyer  next  day  informed  them 
that  he  was  attending  to  matters  with  all  speed; 
and  the  next  five  weeks  passed  in  slowly  realising 
that  at  last  they  had  turned  the  corner  of  their 
lives,  and  were  in  smooth  water.  They  ordered 
among  other  things  the  materials  for  a  fowl- 
house  long  desired,  which  Ralph  helped  to  put 
up;  and  a  considerable  number  of  fowls,  for  feed- 
ing which  he  had  a  design  which  would  enable 
them  to  lay  a  great  many  more  eggs  in  the  future 
than  could  reasonably  be  expected  from  the 
amount  of  food  put  into  the  fowls.  He  also 
caused  an  old  stable  to  be  converted  into  a  garage. 
He  still  went  to  London  two  or  three  times  a 
week,  to  attend  to  business,  which  was  not,  as  a 


EXPECTATIONS  235 

rule,  there.  On  his  way  from  St.  Pancras  to  Red 
Lion  Square,  where  his  office  was,  he  had  long 
been  attracted  by  an  emerald  pendant  with  pearl 
clasp,  in  a  jeweller's  shop  window.  He  went  in 
now  to  ask  its  price.  Fifty-eight  pounds — emer- 
alds were  a  rising  market.  The  expression  rankled 
in  him,  and  going  to  Hatton  Garden  to  enquire 
into  its  truth,  he  found  the  statement  confirmed. 
"The  chief  advantage  of  having  money/  he 
thought,  'is  to  be  able  to  buy  at  the  right  mo- 
ment.' He  had  not  given  Eileen  anything  for  a 
long  time,  and  this  was  an  occasion  which  could 
hardly  be  passed  over.  He  bought  the  pendant 
on  his  way  back  to  St.  Pancras,  the  draft  in  pay- 
ment absorbing  practically  all  his  balance.  Eileen 
was  delighted  with  it.  They  spent  that  evening 
in  the  nearest  approach  to  festivity  that  they  had 
known  for  several  years.  It  was,  as  it  were,  the 
crown  of  the  long  waiting  for  something  out  of 
nothing.  All  those  little  acerbities  which  creep 
into  the  manner  of  two  married  people  who  are 
always  trying  to  round  the  corner  fell  away,  and 
they  sat  together  in  one  large  chair,  talking  and 
laughing  over  the  countless  tricks  which  Provi- 
dence— that  'fat  chough' — had  played  them. 
They  carried  their  light-heartedness  to  bed. 

They   were  awakened  next   morning  by  the 
sound  of  a  car.    The  Ford  was  being  delivered 


236  TATTERDEMALION 

•with  a  request  for  payment.  Ralph  did  not  pay; 
it  would  be  'all  right'  he  said.  He  stabled  the 
car,  and  wrote  to  the  lawyer  that  he  would  be 
glad  to  have  news,  and  an  advance  of  £100.  On 
his  return  from  town  in  the  evening  two  days 
later  he  found  Eileen  in  the  dining  room  with 
her  hair  wild  and  an  opened  letter  before  her. 
She  looked  up  with  the  word:  "Here!"  and 
Ralph  took  the  letter: 

Lodgers  &  Wayburn,  Solicitors,  Ipswich 
Dear  Mr.  Wotchett, 

In  answer  to  yours  of  the  fifteenth,  I  have  obtained 
Probate,  paid  all  debts,  and  distributed  the  various 
legacies.  The  sale  of  furniture  took  place  last  Monday. 
I  now  have  pleasure  in  enclosing  you  a  complete  and  I 
think  final  account,  by  which  you  will  see  that  there  is 
a  sum  in  hand  of  £43  due  to  you  as  residuary  legatee.  I 
am  afraid  this  will  seem  a  disappointing  result,  but  as 
you  were  doubtless  aware  (though  I  was  not  when  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you),  the  greater  part  of  your 
Aunt's  property  passed  under  a  Deed  of  Settlement,  and 
it  seems  she  had  been  dipping  heavily  into  the  capital  of 
the  remainder  for  some  years  past. 
Believe  me, 

Faithfully  yours, 

EDWARD  LODGERS. 

For  a  minute  the  only  sounds  were  the  snap- 
ping of  Ralph's  jaws,  and  Eileen's  rapid  breath- 
ing. Then  she  said: 


EXPECTATIONS  237 

"You  never  said  a  word  about  a  Settlement. 
I  suppose  you  got  it  muddled  as  usual !" 

Ralph  did  not  answer,  too  deep  in  his  anger 
with  the  old  woman  who  had  left  that  'fat  chough ' 
a  hundred  pounds  to  provide  him — Ralph — with 
forty-three. 

"You  always  believe  what  you  want  to  be- 
lieve!" cried  Eileen;  "I  never  saw  such  a  man." 

Ralph  went  to  Ipswich  on  the  morrow.  After 
going  into  everything  with  the  lawyer,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  varying  the  account  by  fifteen  shillings, 
considerably  more  than  which  was  absorbed  by 
the  fee  for  this  interview,  his  fare,  and  hotel  bill. 
The  conduct  of  his  Aunt,  in  having  caused  him 
to  get  it  into  his  head  that  there  was  no  Settle- 
ment, and  in  living  on  her  capital,  gave  him  pain 
quite  beyond  the  power  of  expression;  and  more 
than  once  he  recalled  with  a  shudder  that  slightly 
quizzical  look  on  her  dead  face.  He  returned  to 
Eileen  the  following  day,  with  his  brain  racing 
round  and  round.  Getting  up  next  morning,  he 
said: 

"I  believe  I  can  get  a  hundred  for  that  car; 
I'll  go  up  and  see  about  it." 

"Take  this  too,"  said  Eileen,  handing  him  the 
emerald  pendant.  Ralph  took  it  with  a  grunt. 

"Lucky,"  he  muttered,  "emeralds  are  a  rising 
market.  I  bought  it  on  purpose." 


238  TATTERDEMALION 

He  came  back  that  night  more  cheerful.  He 
had  sold  the  car  for  £65,  and  the  pendant  for  £42 
— a  good  price,  for  emeralds  were  now  on  the 
fall!  With  the  cheque  for  £43,  which  rep- 
resented his  expectations,  he  proved  that  they 
would  only  be  £14  out  on  the  whole  business 
when  the  fowls  and  fowl-house  had  been  paid  for; 
and  they  would  have  the  fowls — the  price  of  eggs 
was  going  up.  Eileen  agreed  that  it  was  the 
moment  to  develop  poultry-keeping.  They  might 
expect  good  returns.  And  holding  up  her  face, 
she  said: 

"Give  me  a  kiss,  dear  Ralph?" 

Ralph  gave  it,  with  his  thirsty  eyes  fixed,  ex- 
pectant, on  something  round  the  corner  of  her 
head,  and  the  smile,  which  never  moved,  on  his 
cheeks. 

After  all  there  was  her  reversion !  They  would 
come  into  it  some  day. 

1919. 


Ill 

MANNA 

I 

The  Petty  Sessions  court  at  Linstowe  was 
crowded.  Miracles  do  not  happen'  every  day, 
nor  are  rectors  frequently  charged  with  larceny. 
The  interest  roused  would  have  relieved  all  those 
who  doubt  the  vitality  of  our  ancient  Church. 
People  who  never  went  outside  their  farms  or 
plots  of  garden,  had  walked  as  much  as  three 
miles  to  see  the  show.  Mrs.  Gloyn,  the  sandy- 
haired  little  keeper  of  the  shop  where  soap  and 
herrings,  cheese,  matches,  boot-laces,  bulls'-eyes, 
and  the  other  luxuries  of  a  countryside  could  be 
procured,  remarked  to  Mrs.  Redland,  the  farm- 
er's wife, '  'Tis  quite  a  gatherin'  like.'  To  which 
Mrs.  Redland  replied,  "Most  like  Church  of  a 
Sunday.' 

More  women,  it  is  true,  than  men,  were  present, 
because  of  their  greater  piety,  and  because  most 
of  them  had  parted  with  pounds  of  butter, 
chickens,  ducks,  potatoes,  or  some  such  offertory 
in  kind  during  the  past  two  years,  at  the  instance 

239 


240  TATTERDEMALION 

of  the  rector.  They  had  a  vested  interest  in  this 
matter,  and  were  present,  accompanied  by  their 
grief  at  value  unreceived.  From  Trover,  their 
little  village  on  the  top  of  the  hill  two  miles  from 
Linstowe,  with  the  squat  church-tower,  beauti- 
fully untouched,  and  ruined  by  the  perfect  res- 
toration of  the  body  of  the  building,  they  had 
trooped  in;  some  even  coming  from  the  shore  of 
the  Atlantic,  a  mile  beyond,  across  the  downs, 
whence  other  upland  square  church-towers  could 
be  viewed  on  the  sky-line  against  the  grey  Jan- 
uary heavens.  The  occasion  was  in  a  sense 
unique,  and  its  piquancy  strengthened  by  that 
rivalry  which  is  the  essence  of  religion. 

For  there  was  no  love  lost  between  Church 
and  Chapel  in  Trover,  and  the  rector's  flock  had 
long  been  fortified  in  then-  power  of  ' parting'  by 
fear  lest ' Chapel'  (also  present  that  day  in  court) 
should  mock  at  his  impecuniousness.  Not  that 
his  flock  approved  of  his  poverty.  It  had  seemed 
'silly-like'  ever  since  the  news  had  spread  that  his 
difficulties  had  been  caused  by  a  faith  in  shares. 
To  improve  a  secure  if  moderate  position  by 
speculation,  would  not  have  seemed  wrong,  if  he 
had  not  failed  instead,  and  made  himself  de- 
pendent on  their  butter,  their  potatoes,  their 
eggs  and  chickens.  In  that  parish,  as  in  others, 
the  saying  'Nothing  succeeds  like  success'  was 


MANNA  241 

true,  nor  had  the  villagers  any  abnormal  disposi- 
tion to  question  the  title-deeds  of  affluence. 

But  it  is  equally  true  that  nothing  irritates  so 
much  as  finding  that  one  of  whom  you  have  the 
right  to  beg  is  begging  of  you.  This  was  why  the 
rector's  tall,  thin,  black  figure,  down  which  a 
ramrod  surely  had  been  passed  at  birth;  his 
narrow,  hairless,  white  and  wasted  face,  with  red 
eyebrows  over  eyes  that  seemed  now  burning  and 
now  melting;  his  grizzled  red  hair  under  a  hat 
almost  green  with  age;  his  abrupt  and  dictatorial 
voice;  his  abrupt  and  mirthless  laugh — all  were 
on  their  nerves.  His  barked-out  utterances,  'I 
want  a  pound  of  butter — pay  you  Monday !'  'I 
want  some  potatoes — pay  you  soon ! '  had  sounded 
too  often  in  the  ears  of  those  who  had  found  his 
repayments  so  far  purely  spiritual.  Now  and 
then  one  of  the  more  cynical  would  remark,  '  Ah ! 
I  told  un  my  butter  was  all  to  market/  Or,  'The 
man  can't  'ave  no  principles — he  didn't  get  no 
chicken  out  o'  me.'  And  yet  it  was  impossible 
to  let  him  and  his  old  mother  die  on  them — it 
would  give  too  much  pleasure  'over  the  way.' 
And  they  never  dreamed  of  losing  him  in  any 
other  manner,  because  they  knew  his  living  had 
been  purchased.  Money  had  passed  in  that 
transaction;  the  whole  fabric  of  the  Church  and 
of  Society  was  involved.  His  professional  con- 


242  TATTERDEMALION 

duct,  too, -was  flawless;  his  sermons  long  and 
fiery;  he  was  always  ready  to  perform  those  super- 
numerary duties — weddings,  baptisms,  and  burials 
— which  yielded  him  what  revenue  he  had,  now 
that  his  income  from  the  living  was  mortgaged 
up  to  the  hilt.  Their  loyalty  held  as  the  loyalty 
of  people  will  when  some  great  institution  of 
which  they  are  members  is  endangered. 

Gossip  said  that  things  were  in  a  dreadful  way 
at  the  Rectory;  the  external  prosperity  of  that 
red-brick  building  surrounded  by  laurels  which 
did  not  flower,  heightened  ironically  the  condi- 
tions within.  The  old  lady,  his  mother,  eighty 
years  of  age,  was  reported  never  to  leave  her  bed 
this  winter,  because  they  had  no  coal.  She  lay 
there,  with  her  three  birds  flying  about  dirtying 
the  room,  for  neither  she  nor  her  son  would  ever 
let  a  cage-door  be  shut — deplorable  state  of 
things!  The  one  servant  was  supposed  never 
to  be  paid.  The  tradesmen  would  no  longer 
leave  goods  because  they  could  not  get  their 
money.  Most  of  the  furniture  had  been  sold; 
and  the  dust  made  you  sneeze  'fit  to  bust  your- 
self like/ 

With  a  little  basket  on  his  arm,  the  rector  col- 
lected for  his  household  three  times  a  week,  pur- 
suing a  kind  of  method,  always  in  the  apparent 
belief  that  he  would  pay  on  Monday,  and  observ- 


MANNA  243 

ing  the  Sabbath  as  a  day  of  rest.  His  mind  seemed 
ever  to  cherish  the  faith  that  his  shares  were  on 
the  point  of  recovery;  his  spirit  never  to  lose  be- 
lief in  his  divine  right  to  be  supported.  It  was 
extremely  difficult  to  refuse  him;  the  postman 
had  twice  seen  him  standing  on  the  railway  line 
that  ran  past  just  below  the  village,  'with  'is  'at 
off,  as  if  he  was  in  two  minds-like.'  This  vision 
of  him  close  to  the  shining  metals  had  powerfully 
impressed  many  good  souls  who  loved  to  make 
flesh  creep.  They  would  say, 1 1  wouldn'  never  be 
surprised  if  something  'appened  to  'im  one  of 
these  days!'  Others,  less  romantic,  shook  their 
heads,  insisting  that '  he  wouldn'  never  do  nothin* 
while  his  old  mother  lived.'  Others  again,  more 
devout,  maintained  that  'he  wouldn'  never  go 
against  the  Scriptures,  settin'  an  example  like 
that!' 

II 

The  Petty  Sessions  court  that  morning  resem- 
bled Church  on  the  occasion  of  a  wedding;  for  the 
villagers  of  Trover  had  put  on  their  black  clothes 
and  grouped  themselves  according  to  their  re- 
ligious faiths — 'Church'  in  the  right,  'Chapel'  in 
the  left-hand  aisle.  They  presented  all  that  rich 
variety  of  type  and  monotony  of  costume  which 
the  remoter  country  still  affords  to  the  observer; 


244  TATTERDEMALION 

their  mouths  were  almost  all  a  little  open,  and 
their  eyes  fixed  with  intensity  on  the  Bench. 
The  three  magistrates — Squire  Pleydell  in  the 
chair,  Dr.  Becket  on  his  left,  and  'the  Honble' 
Calmady  on  his  right — were  by  most  seen  for  the 
first  time  in  their  judicial  capacity;  and  curiosify 
was  divided  between  their  proceedings  and  ob- 
servation of  the  rector's  prosecutor,  a  small  baker 
from  the  town  whence  the  village  of  Trover  de- 
rived its  necessaries.  The  face  of  this  fellow,  like 
that  of  a  white  walrus,  and  the  back  of  his  bald 
head  were  of  interest  to  everyone  until  the  case 
was  called,  and  the  rector  himself  entered.  In 
his  thin  black  overcoat  he  advanced  and  stood  as 
if  a  little  dazed.  Then,  turning  his  ravaged  face 
to  the  Bench,  he  jerked  out: 

1  Good  morning !    Lot  of  people ! ' 

A  constable  behind  him  murmured: 

'Into  the  dock,  sir,  please.' 

Moving  across,  he  entered  the  wooden  edifice. 

'Quite  like  a  pulpit/  he  said,  and  uttered  his 
barking  laugh. 

Through  the  court  ran  a  stir  and  shuffle,  as  it 
might  be  of  sympathy  with  his  lost  divinity,  and 
every  eye  was  fixed  on  that  tall,  lean  figure,  with 
the  shaven  face,  and  red,  grey-streaked  hair. 

Entering  the  witness-box,  the  prosecutor  de- 
posed as  follows: 


MANNA  245 

'Last  Tuesday  afternoon,  your  Honours,  I 
'appened  to  be  drivin'  my  cart  meself  up  through 
Trover  on  to  the  cottages  just  above  the  dip,  and 
I'd  gone  in  to  Mrs.  'Oney's,  the  laundress,  leavin' 
my  cart  standin'  same  as  I  always  do.  I  'ad  a 
bit  o'  gossip,  an'  when  I  come  out,  I  see  this  gentle- 
man walkin'  away  in  front  towards  the  village 
street.  It  so  'appens  I  'appened  to  look  in  the 
back  o'  my  cart,  and  I  thinks  to  meself,  That's 
funny!  There's  only  two  flat  rounds — 'ave  I 
left  two  'ere  by  mistake  ?  I  calls  to  Mrs.  'Oney, 
an'  I  says,  "I  'aven't  been  absent,  'ave  I,  an* 
left  ye  two?"  "No,"  she  says,  "only  one — 'ere 
'tis!  Why?"  she  says.  "Well,"  I  says,  "I  'ad 
four  when  I  come  in  to  you,  there's  only  two  now. 
'Tis  funny!"  I  says.  "'Ave  you  dropped  one?" 
she  says.  "No,"  I  says,  "I  counted  'em." 
"That's  funny,"  she  says;  "perhaps  a  dog's  'ad 
it."  "'E  may  'ave,"  I  says,  "but  the  only  thing 
I  see  on  the  road  is  that  there."  An'  I  pointed 
to  this  gentleman.  "Oh!"  she  says,  "that's  the 
rector."  "Yes,"  I  says,  "I  ought  to  know  that, 
seein'  'e's  owed  me  money  a  matter  of  eighteen 
months.  I  think  I'll  drive  on,"  I  says.  Well,  I 
drove  on,  and  come  up  to  this  gentleman.  'E 
turns  'is  'ead,  and  looks  at  me.  "Good  after- 
noon!" he  says — like  that.  "Good  afternoon, 
sir,"  I  says.  "You  'aven't  seen  a  loaf,  'ave 


246  TATTERDEMALION 

you?"  'E  pulls  the  loaf  out  of  'is  pocket.  "On 
the  ground/'  'e  says;  "dirty,"  'e  says.  "Do  for 
my  birds!  Ha!  ha!"  like  that.  "Oh!"  I  says, 
"indeed!  Now  I  know,"  I  says.  I  kept  my 
'ead,  but  I  thinks:  "That's  a  bit  too  light-'earted. 
You  owes  me  one  pound,  eight  and  tuppence; 
I've  whistled  for  it  gettin'  on  for  two  years,  but 
you  ain't  content  with  that,  it  seems!  Very 
well,"  I  thinks;  "we'll  see.  An'  I  don't  give  a 
darn  whether  you're  a  parson  or  not !"  I  charge 
'im  with  takin'  my  bread.' 

Passing  a  dirty  handkerchief  over  his  white 
face  and  huge  gingery  moustache,  the  baker  was 
silent.  Suddenly  from  the  dock  the  rector  called 
out:  'Bit  of  dirty  bread — feed  my  birds.  Ha, 
ha!' 

There  was  a  deathly  little  silence.  Then  the 
baker  said  slowly: 

'What's  more,  I  say  he  ate  it  'imself.  I  call 
two  witnesses  to  that.' 

The  Chairman,  passing  his  hand  over  his  hard, 
alert  face,  that  of  a  master  of  hounds,  asked:  i 

'Did  you  see  any  dirt  on  the  loaf?  Be  care- 
ful!' 

The  baker  answered  stolidly: 

'Not  a  speck.' 

Dr.  Becket,  a  slight  man  with  a  short  grey 
beard,  and  eyes  restive  from  having  to  notice 
painful  things,  spoke. 


MANNA  247 

'Had  your  horse  moved?' 

"E  never  moves/ 

'Ha,  ha!'  came  the  rector's  laugh. 

The  Chairman  said  sharply: 

'Well,  stand  down;  call  the  next  witness. — 
Charles  Stodder,  carpenter.  Very  well !  Go  on, 
and  tell  us  what  you  know.' 

But  before  he  could  speak  the  rector  called  out 
in  a  loud  voice:  'Chapel !' 

'Hsssh!  Sir!'  But  through  the  body  of  the 
court  had  passed  a  murmur,  of  challenge,  as  it 
were,  from  one  aisle  to  the  other. 

The  witness,  a  square  man  with  a  red  face,  grey 
hair,  whiskers,  and  moustache,  and  lively  excita- 
ble dark  eyes,  watering  with  anxiety,  spoke  in  a 
fast  soft  voice: 

'Tuesday  afternoon,  your  Worships,  it  might 
be  about  four  o'clock,  I  was  passin'  up  the  village, 
an'  I  saw  the  rector  at  his  gate,  with  a  loaf  in  'is 
'and.' 

'Show  us  how.' 

The  witness  held  his  black  hat  to  his  side,  with 
the  rounded  top  outwards. 

'Was  the  loaf  clean  or  dirty?' 

Sweetening  his  little  eyes,  the  witness  an- 
swered: 

'I  should  say  'twas  clean.' 

'Lie!' 


248  TATTERDEMALION 

The  Chairman  said  sternly: 

'You  mustn't  interrupt,  sir. — You  didn't  see 
the  bottom  of  the  loaf?' 

The  witness's  little  eyes  snapped. 

'Not  eggzactly.' 

'Did  the  rector  speak  to  you?' 

The  witness  smiled.  'The  rector  wouldn'  never 
stop  me  if  I  was  passin'.  I  collects  the  rates.' 

The  rector's  laugh,  so  like  a  desolate  dog's  bark, 
killed  the  bubble  of  gaiety  rising  in  the  court; 
and  again  that  deathly  little  silence  followed. 

Then  the  Chairman  said: 

'  Do  you  want  to  ask  him  anything  ? ' 

The  rector  turned.    'Why  d'  you  tell  lies?7 

The  witness  screwing  up  his  eyes,  said  excitedly : 

'What  lies  'ave  I  told,  please?' 

'You  said  the  loaf  was  clean.' 

'So  'twas  clean,  so  far  as  I  see.' 

'Come  to  Church,  and  you  won't  tell  lies/ 

'Reckon  I  can  learn  truth  faster  in  Chapel.' 

The  Chairman  rapped  his  desk. 

"That'll  do,  that'll  do!  Stand  down!  Next 
witness. — Emily  Bleaker.  Yes  ?  What  are  you  ? 
Cook  at  the  rectory?  Very  well.  What  do  you 
know  about  the  affair  of  this  loaf  last  Tuesday 
afternoon?' 

The  witness,  a  broad-faced,  brown-eyed  girl, 
answered  stolidly:  'Nothin',  zurr.' 


MANNA  249 

,ha!' 

'Hssh !    Did  you  see  the  loaf?' 

'Noa.' 

'What  are  you  here  for,  then?' 

'  Master  asked  for  a  plate  arid  a  knaif e.  He  an' 
old  missus  ate  et  for  dinner.  I  see  the  plate 
after;  there  wasn't  on'y  crumbs  on  et.' 

'If  you  never  saw  the  loaf,  how  do  you  know 
they  ate  it?' 

'Because  ther'  warn't  nothin'  else  in  the 
'ouse.' 

The  rector's  voice  barked  out: 

'Quite  right!' 

The  Chairman  looked  at  him  fixedly. 

'  Do  you  want  to  ask  her  anything  ? ' 

The  rector  nodded. 

'You  been  paid  your  wages?' 

'Noa,  I  'asn't.'  ' 

'D'you  know  why?' 

'Noa.' 

'Very  sorry — no  money  to  pay  you.  That's 
all.' 

This  closed  the  prosecutor's  case;  and  there 
followed  a  pause,  during  which  the  Bench  con- 
sulted together,  and  the  rector  eyed  the  con- 
gregation, nodding  to  one  here  and  there.  Then 
the  Chairman,  turning  to  him,  said: 

'Now,  sir,  do  you  call  any  witnesses?' 


250  TATTERDEMALION 

'Yes.  My  bell-ringer.  He's  a  good  man. 
You  can  believe  him.' 

The  bell-ringer,  Samuel  Bevis,  who  took  his 
place  in  the  witness-box,  was  a  kind  of  elderly 
Bacchus,  with  permanently  trembling  hands. 
He  deposed  as  follows: 

'When  I  passed  rector  Tuesday  arternoon,  he 
calls  after  me:  "See  this!"  'e  says,  and  up  'e 
held  it.  "Bit  o'  dirrty  bread,"  'e  says;  "do  for 
my  burrds."  Then  on  he  goes  walkinV 

'Did  you  see  whether  the  loaf  was  dirty?' 

'Yaas,  I  think  'twas  dirrty.' 

'Don't  think !    Do  you  know  ?' 

'Yaas;  'twas  dirrty.' 

'Which  side?' 

'Which  saide?  I  think  'twas  dirrty  on  the 
bottom.' 

'Are  you  sure?' 

'Yaas;  'twas  dirrty  on  the  bottom,  for  zar- 
tain.' 

'Very  well.  Stand  down.  Now,  sir,  will  you 
give  us  your  version  of  this  matter?' 

The  rector,  pointing  at  the  prosecutor  and  the 
left-hand  aisle,  jerked  out  the  words: 

'All  Chapel — want  to  see  me  down.' 

The  Chairman  said  stonily: 

'Never  mind  that.    Come  to  the  facts,  please.' 

'  Certainly !    Out  for  a  walk — passed  the  baker's 


MANNA  251 

cart — saw  a  loaf  fallen  in  the  mud — picked  it  up 
— do  for  my  birds.' 

'What  birds?' 

'Magpie  and  two  starlings;  quite  free — never 
shut  the  cage-door;  well  fed.' 

'The  baker  charges  you  with  taking  it  from  his 
cart.' 

'Lie !    Underneath  the  cart  in  a  puddle.' 

'You  heard  what  your  cook  said  about  your 
eating  it.  Did  you?' 

'Yes,  birds  couldn't  eat  all — nothing  in  the 
house — Mother  and  I — hungry.' 

'Hungry?' 

'  No  money.  Hard  up — very !  Often  hungry. 
Ha,  ha!' 

Again  through  the  court  that  queer  rustle 
passed.  The  three  magistrates  gazed  at  the  ac- 
cused. Then  'the  Honble'  Calmady  said: 

'You  say  you  found  the  loaf  under  the  cart. 
Didn't  it  occur  to  you  to  put  it  back?  You 
could  see  it  had  fallen.  How  else  could  it  have 
come  there?' 

The  rector's  burning  eyes  seemed  to  melt. 

'From  the  sky.  Manna.'  Staring  round  the 
court,  he  added:  'Hungry — God's  elect — to  the 
manna  born ! '  And,  throwing  back  his  head,  he 
laughed.  It  was  the  only  sound  in  a  silence  as 
of  the  grave. 


252  TATTERDEMALION 

The  magistrates  spoke  together  in  low  tones. 
The  rector  stood  motionless,  gazing  at  them  fix- 
edly. The  people  in  the  court  sat  as  if  at  a  play. 
Then  the  Chairman  said: 

'Case  dismissed.' 

1  Thank  you.' 

Jerking  out  that  short  thanksgiving,  the  rector 
Descended  from  the  dock,  and  passed  down  the 
centre  aisle,  followed  by  every  eye. 

Ill 

From  the  Petty  Sessions  court  the  congrega- 
tion wended  its  way  back  to  Trover,  by  the  muddy 
lane,  'Church'  and  'Chapel,'  arguing  the  case. 
To  dim  the  triumph  of  the  'Church'  the  fact  re- 
mained that  the  baker  had  lost  his  loaf  and  had 
not  been  compensated.  The  loaf  was  worth 
money;  no  money  had  passed.  It  was  hard  to 
be~victorious  and  yet  reduced  to  silence  and  dark 
looks  at  girding  adversaries.  The  nearer  they 
came  to  home,  the  more  angry  with  'Chapel'  did 
they  grow.  Then  the  bell-ringer  had  his  in- 
spiration. Assembling  his  three  assistants,  he 
hurried  to  the  belfry,  and  in  two  minutes  the  little 
old  tower  was  belching  forth  the  merriest  and 
maddest  peal  those  bells  had  ever  furnished.  Out 
it  swung  in  the  still  air  of  the  grey  winter  day, 
away  to  the  very  sea. 


MANNA  253 

A  stranger,  issuing  from  the  inn,  hearing  that 
triumphant  sound,  and  seeing  so  many  black- 
clothed  people  about,  said  to  his  driver: 

'  What  is  it — a  wedding  ? ' 

'No,  zurr,  they  say  'tis  for  the  rector,  like; 
he've  a  just  been  acquitted  for  larceny/ 

On  the  Tuesday  following,  the  rector's  ravaged 
face  and  red-grey  hair  appeared  in  Mrs.  Gloyn's 
doorway,  and  his  voice,  creaking  like  a  saw,  said : 

1  Can  you  let  me  have  a  pound  of  butter  ?  Pay 
you  soon.' 

What  else  could  he  do?  Not  even  to  God's 
elect  does  the  sky  always  send  down  manna. 

1916. 


Not  very  long  ago,  during  a  sojourn  in  a  part 
of  the  West  country  never  yet  visited  by  me,  I 
went  out  one  fine  but  rather  cold  March  morning 
for  a  long  ramble.  I  was  in  one  of  those  disillu- 
sioned moods  that  come  to  writers,  bankrupt  of 
ideas,  bankrupt  of  confidence,  a  prey  to  that  re- 
current despair,  the  struggle  with  which  makes 
the  profession  of  the  pen — as  a  friend  once  said 
to  me — "a  manly  one."  "Yes" — I  was  think- 
ing, for  all  that  the  air  was  so  brisk,  and  the  sun 
so  bright — "nothing  comes  to  me  nowadays,  no 
flashes  of  light,  none  of  those  suddenly  shaped 
visions  that  bring  cheer  and  warmth  to  a  poor 
devil's  heart,  and  set  his  brain  and  pen  to  driving 
on.  A  bad,  bad  business!"  And  my  eyes, 
wandering  over  the  dip  and  rise,  the  woods,  the 
moor,  the  rocks  of  that  fine  countryside,  took  in 
the  loveliness  thereof  with  the  profound  discon- 
tent of  one  who,  seeing  beauty,  feels  that  he  can- 
not render  it.  The  high  lane-banks  had  just 
been  pollarded,  one  could  see  right  down  over 
the  fields  and  gorse  and  bare  woods  tinged  with 

255 


256  TATTERDEMALION 

that  rosy  brown  of  beech  and  birch  twigs,  and 
the  dusty  saffron  of  the  larches.  And  suddenly 
my  glance  was  arrested  by  something  vivid,  a  sort 
of  black  and  white  excitement  in  the  air.  "Aha ! " 
I  thought,  "a  magpie.  Two!  Three!  Good! 
Is  it  an  omen?"  The  birds  had  risen  at  the 
bottom  of  a  field,  their  twining,  fluttering  voyage 
— most  decorative  of  all  bird  flights — was  soon 
lost  in  the  wood  beyond,  but  something  it  had 
left  behind  in  my  heart;  I  felt  more  hopeful,  less 
inclined  to  think  about  the  failure  of  my  spirit, 
better  able  to  give  myself  up  to  this  new  coun- 
try I  was  passing  through.  Over  the  next  rise 
in  the  very  winding  lane  I  heard  the  sound  of 
brisk  church  bells,  and  not  three  hundred  yards 
beyond  came  to  a  village  green,  wher-e  knots  of 
men  dressed  in  the  dark  clothes,  light  ties,  and 
bowler  hats  of  village  festivity,  and  of  women 
smartened  up  beyond  belief,  were  gathered,  chat- 
tering, round  the  yard  of  an  old,  grey,  square- 
towered  church. 

"What's  going  on?"  I  thought.  "It's  not 
Sunday,  not  the  birthday  of  a  Potentate,  and 
surely  they  don't  keep  Saint  days  in  this  manner. 
It  must  be  a  wedding.  Yes — there's  a  favour! 
Let's  go  in  and  see!"  And,  passing  the  expec- 
tant groups,  I  entered  the  church  and  made  my 
way  up  the  aisle.  There  was  already  a  fair 


A  STRANGE  THING  257 

sprinkling  of  folk  all  turned  round  towards  the 
door,  and  the  usual  licensed  buzz  and  whisper  of 
a  wedding  congregation.  The  church,  as  seems 
usual  in  remote  parishes,  had  been  built  all  those 
centuries  ago  to  hold  a  population  in  accordance 
with  the  expectations  of  its  tenet,  "Be  fruitful 
and  multiply."  But  the  whole  population  could 
have  been  seated  in  a  quarter  of  its  space.  It 
was  lofty  and  unwarmed  save  by  excitement, 
and  the  smell  of  bear's-grease.  There  was  cer- 
tainly more  animation  than  I  had  ever  seen  or 
savoured  in  a  truly  rural  district. 

The  bells  which  had  been  ringing  with  a  sort 
of  languid  joviality,  fell  now  into  the  hurried 
crashing  which  marks  the  approach  of  a  bride, 
and  the  people  I  had  passed  outside  came  throng- 
ing in.  I  perceived  a  young  man — little  more 
than  a  boy,  who  by  his  semi-detachment,  the 
fumbling  of  his  gloved  hands,  and  the  sheepish- 
ness  of  the  smile  on  his  good-looking,  open  face, 
was  obviously  the  bridegroom.  I  liked  the  looks 
of  him — a  cut  above  the  usual  village  bumpkin — 
something  free  and  kind  about  his  face.  But  no 
one  was  paying  him  the  least  attention.  It  was 
for  the  bride  they  were  waiting;  and  I  myself 
began  to  be  excited.  What  would  this  young 
thing  be  like?  Just  the  ordinary  village  maiden 
with  tight  cheeks,  and  dress;  coarse  veil,  high 


258  TATTERDEMALION 

colour,  and  eyes  like  a  rabbit's;  or  something — 
something  like  that  little  Welsh  girl  on  the  hills 
whom  I  once  passed  and  whose  peer  I  have  never 
since  seen?  Bending  forward,  I  accosted  an 
apple-faced  woman  in  the  next  pew.  "Can  you 
tell  me  who  the  bride  is?" 

Regarding  me  with  the  grey,  round,  defensive 
glance  that  one  bestows  on  strangers,  she  replied : 

"Aw,  don't  7ee  know?  'Tes  Gwenny  Mara — 
prettiest,  brightest  maid  in  these  parts."  And, 
jerking  her  thumb  towards  the  neglected  bride- 
groom, she  added:  "He's  a  lucky  young  chap. 
She'm  a  sunny  maid,  for  sure,  and  a  gude 
maid  tu." 

Somehow  the  description  did  not  reassure  me, 
and  I  prepared  for  the  worst. 

A  bubble,  a  stir,  a  rustle ! 

Like  everyone  else,  I  turned  frankly  round. 
She  was  coming  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  a 
hard-faced,  rather  gipsy-looking  man,  dressed  in 
a  farmer's  very  best. 

I  can  only  tell  you  that  to  see  her  coming  down 
the  centre  of  that  grey  church  amongst  all  those 
dark-clothed  people,  was  like  watching  the  dance 
of  a  sunbeam.  Never  had  I  seen  a  face  so  happy, 
sweet,  and  radiant.  Smiling,  eager,  just  lost 
enough  to  her  surroundings,  her  hair  unconquera- 
bly golden  through  the  coarse  veil;  her  dancing 


A  STRANGE  THING  259 

eyes  clear  and  dark  as  a  peat  pool — she  was  the 
prettiest  sight.  One  could  only  think  of  a  young 
apple-tree  with  the  spring  sun  on  its  blossom. 
She  had  that  kind  of  infectious  brightness  which 
comes  from  very  simple  goodness.  It  was  quite 
a  relief  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to  the  young  man's 
face,  and  to  feel  that  she  was  passing  into  good 
hands. 

The  only  flowers  in  the  church  were  early  daf- 
fodils, but  those  first  children  of  the  sun  were 
somehow  extraordinarily  appropriate  to  the  wed- 
ding of  this  girl.  When  she  came  out  she  was 
pelted  with  them,  and  with  that  miserable  con- 
fetti without  which  not  even  the  simplest  souls 
can  pass  to  bliss,  it  seems.  There  are  things  in 
life  which  make  one  feel  good — sunshine,  most 
music,  all  flowers,  many  children,  some  animals, 
clouds,  mountains,  bird-songs,  blue  sky,  dancing, 
and  here  and  there  a  young  girl's  face.  And  I 
had  the  feeling  that  all  of  us  there  felt  good  for 
the  mere  seeing  of  her.  , 

When  she  had  driven  away,  I  found  myself 
beside  a  lame  old  man,  with  whiskers,  and  de- 
lightful eyes,  who  continued  to  smile  after  the 
carriage  had  quite  vanished.  Noticing,  perhaps, 
that  I,  too,  was  smiling,  he  said:  "'Tes  a  funny 
thing,  tu,  when  a  maid  like  that  gets  married — 
makes  you  go  all  of  a  tremble — so  it  du."  And 


260  TATTERDEMALION 

to  my  nod  he  added:  "Brave  bit  o'  sunshine — 
we'll  miss  her  hereabout;  not  a  doubt  of  it.  We 
ain't  got  another  one  like  that." 

"Was  that  her  father?"  I  asked,  for  the  want 
of  something  to  say.  With  a  sharpish  look  at 
my  face,  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,  she  an't  got  no  parents,  Mr.  Mara  bein' 
her  uncle,  as  you  may  say.  No,  she  an't  got  no 
parents,"  he  repeated,  and  there  was  something 
ill  at  ease,  yet  juicy,  about  his  voice,  as  though 
he  knew  things  that  he  would  not  tell. 

Since  there  was  nothing  more  to  wait  for,  I 
went  up  to  the  little  inn,  and  ordered  bread  and 
cheese.  The  male  congregation  was  whetting  its 
whistle  noisily  within,  but,  as  a  stranger,  I  had 
the  verandah  to  myself,  and,  finishing  my  simple 
lunch  in  the  March  sunlight,  I  paid  and  started 
on.  Taking  at  random  one  of  the  three  lanes 
that  debouched  from  the  bottom  of  the  green,  I 
meandered  on  between  high  banks,  happy  in  the 
consciousness  of  not  knowing  at  all  where  it 
would  lead  me — that  essential  of  a  country  ram- 
ble. Except  one  cottage  in  a  bottom  and  one 
farm  on  a  rise,  I  passed  nothing,  nobody.  The 
spring  was  late  in  these  parts,  the  buds  had  hardly 
formed  as  yet  on  any  trees,  and  now  and  then 
between  the  bursts  of  sunlight  a  few  fine  specks 
of  snow  would  come  drifting  past  me  on  the 


A  STRANGE  THING  261 

wind.  Close  to  a  group  of  pines  at  a  high  corner, 
the  lane  dipped  sharply  down  to  a  long  farmhouse 
standing  back  in  its  yard,  where  three  carts  were 
drawn  up,  and  an  empty  waggonette  with  its 
shafts  in  the  air.  And  suddenly,  by  some  broken 
daffodils  on  the  seats  and  confetti  on  the  ground, 
I  perceived  that  I  had  stumbled  on  the  bride's 
home,  where  the  wedding  feast  was,  no  doubt,  in 
progress. 

Gratifying  but  by  no  means  satisfying  my 
curiosfty  by  gazing  at  the  lichened  stone  and 
thatch  of  the  old  house,  at  the  pigeons,  pigs,  and 
hens  at  large  between  it  and  the  barns,  I  passed 
on  down  the  lane,  which  turned  up  steeply  to  the 
right  beside  a  little  stream.  To  my  left  was  a 
long  larch  wood,  to  my  right  rough  fields  with 
many  trees.  The  lane  finished  at  a  gate  below 
the  steep  moorside  crowned  by  a  rocky  tor.  I 
stood  there  leaning  on  the  top  bar,  debating 
whether  I  should  ascend  or  no.  The  bracken 
had,  most  of  it,  been  cut  in  the  autumn,  and  not 
a  hundred  yards  away  the  furze  was  being  swaled; 
the  little  blood-red  flames  and  the  blue  smoke, 
the  yellow  blossoms  of  the  gorse,  the  sunlight, 
and  some  flecks  of  drifting  snow  were  mingled  in 
an  amazing  tangle  of  colour. 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  ascend  the  tor, 
and  was  pushing  through  the  gate,  when  suddenly 


262  TATTERDEMALION 

I  saw  a  woman  sitting  on  a  stone  under  the  wall 
bordering  the  larch  wood.  She  was  holding  her 
head  in  her  hands,  rocking  her  body  to  and  fro; 
and  her  eyes  were  evidently  shut,  for  she  had  not 
noticed  me.  She  wore  avblue  serge  dress;  her  hat 
reposed  beside  her,  and  her  dark  hair  was  strag- 
gling about  her  face.  That  face,  all  blowsy  and 
flushed,  was  at  once  wild  and  stupefied.  A  face 
which  has  been  beautiful,  coarsened  and  swollen 
by  life  and  strong  emotion,  is  a  pitiful  enough 
sight.  Her  dress,  hat,  and  the  way  her  hair  had 
been  done  were  redolent  of  the  town,  and  of  that 
unnameable  something  which  clings  to  women 
whose  business  it  is  to  attract  men.  And  yet 
there  was  a  gipsyish  look  about  her,  as  though 
she  had  not  always  been  of  the  town. 

The  sight  of  a  woman's  unrestrained  distress 
in  the  very  heart  of  untouched  nature  is  so  rare 
that  one  must  be  peculiar  to  remain  unmoved. 
And  there  I  stood,  not  knowing  what  on  earth 
to  do.  She  went  on  rocking  herself  to  and  fro, 
her  stays  creaking,  and  a  faint  moaning  sound 
coming  from  her  lips;  and  suddenly  she  drooped 
over  her  lap,  her  hands  fallen  to  her  sides,  as 
though  she  had  gone  into  a  kind  of  coma.  How 
go  on  and  leave  her  thus;  yet  how  intrude  on 
what  did  not  seem  to  me  mere  physical  suffering  ? 

In  that  quandary  I  stood  and  watched.    This 


A  STRANGE  THING  263 

corner  was  quite  sheltered  from  the  wind,  the  sun 
almost  hot,  and  the  breath  of  the  swaling  reached 
one  in  the  momentary  calms.  For  three  full 
minutes  she  had  not  moved  a  finger;  till,  begin- 
ning to  think  she  had  really  fainted,  I  went  up 
to  her.  From  her  drooped  body  came  a  scent 
of  heat,  and  of  stale  violet  powder,  and  I  could 
see,  though  the  east  wind  had  outraddled  them, 
traces  of  rouge  on  her  cheeks  and  lips;  their  sur- 
face had  a  sort  of  swollen  defiance,  but  under- 
neath, as  it  were,  a  wasted  look.  Her  breathing 
sounded  faint  and  broken. 

Mustering  courage,  I  touched  her  on  the  arm. 
She  raised  her  head  and  looked  up.  Her  eyes 
were  the  best  things  she  had  left;  they  must  have 
once  been  very  beautiful.  Bloodshot  now  from 
the  wind,  their  wild,  stupefied  look  passed  after  a 
moment  into  the  peculiar,  half-bold,  half-furtive 
stare  of  women  of  a  certain  sort.  She  did  not 
speak,  and  in  my  embarrassment  I  drew  out  the 
flask  of  port  I  always  take  with  me  on  my  ram- 
bles, and  stammered: 

"I  beg  your  pardon — are  you  feeling  faint? 
Would  you  care — ?"  And,  unscrewing  the  top, 
I  held  out  the  flask.  She  stared  at  it  a  moment 
blankly,  then  taking  it,  said: 

"That's  kind  of  you.  I  feel  to  want  it,  tu." 
And,  putting  it  to  her  lips,  she  drank,  tilting  back 


264  TATTERDEMALION 

her  head.  Perhaps  it  was  the  tell-tale  softness  of 
her  u's,  perhaps  the  naturally  strong  lines  of  her 
figure  thus  bent  back,  but  somehow  the  plumage 
of  the  town  bird  seemed  to  drop  off  her  suddenly. 

She  handed  back  the  flask,  as  empty  as  it  had 
ever  been,  and  said,  with  a  hard  smile: 

"I  dare  say  you  thought  me  funny  sittin'  'ere 
like  that." 

"I  thought  you  were  ill." 

She  laughed  without  the  faintest  mirth,  and 
muttered: 

"I  did  go  on,  didn't  I?"  Then,  almost  fiercely, 
added:  "I  got  some  reason,  too.  Seein'  the  old 
place  again  after  all  these  years."  Her  dark  eyes, 
which  the  wine  seemed  to  have  cleared  and  bold- 
ened,  swept  me  up  and  down,  taking  me  in, 
making  sure  perhaps  whether  or  no  she  had  ever 
seen  me,  and  what  sort  of  a  brute  I  might  be. 
Then  she  said:  "I  was  born  here.  Are  you  from 
these  parts?"  I  shook  my  head — "No,  from  the 
other  side  of  the  county." 

She  laughed.  Then,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
said  abruptly: 

"I  been  to  a  weddin' — first  I've  seen  since  I 
was  a  girl." 

Some  instinct  kept  me  silent. 

"My  own  daughter's  weddin',  but  nobody 
didn't  know  me — not  likely." 


A  STRANGE  THING  265 

I  had  dropped  down  under  the  shelter  of  the 
wall  on  to  a  stone  opposite,  and  at  those  words 
looked  at  her  with  interest  indeed.  She — this 
coarsened,  wasted,  suspiciously  scented  woman 
of  the  town — the  mother  of  that  sweet,  sunny 
child  I  had  just  seen  married.  And  again  instinc- 
tively silent  about  my  own  presence  at  the  wed- 
ding, I  murmured: 

"I  thought  I  saw  some  confetti  in  that  farm- 
yard as  I  came  up  the  lane." 

She  laughed  again. 

"Confetti — that's  the  little  pink  and  white 
and  blue  things — plenty  o'  that,"  and  she  added 
fiercely:  "My  own  brother  didn'  know  me — let 
alone  my  girl.  How  should  she? — I  haven't  seen 
her  since  she  was  a  baby — she  was  a  laughin'  lit- 
tle thing,"  and  she  gazed  past  me  with  that  look 
in  the  eyes  as  of  people  who  are  staring  back  into 
the  bygone.  "I  guess  we  was  laughin'  when  we 
got  her.  'Twas  just  here — summer-time.  I  'ad 
the  moon  in  my  blood  that  night,  right  enough." 
Then,  turning  her  eyes  on  my  face,  she  added: 
"That's  what  a  girl  mil  'ave,  you  know,  once  in 
a  while,  and  like  as  not  it'll  du  for  her.  Only 
thirty-five  now,  I  am,  an'  pretty  nigh  the  end  o' 
my  tether.  What  can  you  expect? — I'm  a  gay 
woman.  Did  for  me  right  enough.  Her  father's 
dead,  tu." 


266  TATTERDEMALION 

"Do  you  mean,"  I  said,  "because  of  your 
chOd?" 

She  nodded.  "I  suppose  you  can  say  that. 
They  made  me  bring  an  order  against  him.  He 
wouldn't  pay  up,  so  he  went  and  enlisted,  an'  in 
tu  years  'e  was  dead  in  the  Boer  War — so  it  killed 
him  right  enough.  But  there  she  is,  a  sweet 
sprig  if  ever  there  was  one.  That's  a  strange 
thing,  isn't  it?"  And  she  stared  straight  before 
her  in  a  sudden  silence.  Nor  could  /  find  anything 
to  say,  slowly  taking  in  the  strangeness  of  this 
thing.  That  girl,  so  like  a  sunbeam,  of  whom 
the  people  talked  as  though  she  were  a  blessing 
in  their  lives — her  coming  into  life  to  have  been 
the  ruin  of  the  two  who  gave  her  being ! 

The  woman  went  on  dully:  "Funny  how  I 
knew  she  was  goin'  to  be  married — 'twas  a  farmer 
told  me — comes  to  me  regular  when  he  goes  to 
Exeter  market.  I  always  knew  he  came  from 
near  my  old  home.  'There's  a  weddin'  on  Tues- 
day,' 'e  says,  'I'd  like  to  be  the  bridegroom  at. 
Prettiest,  sunniest  maid  you  ever  saw';  an'  he 
told  me  where  she  come  from,  so  I  knew.  He 
found  me  a  bit  funny  that  afternoon.  But  he 
don't  know  who  I  am,  though  he  used  to  go  to 
school  with  me;  I'd  never  tell,  not  for  worlds." 
She  shook  her  head  vehemently.  "I  don't  know 
why  I  told  you;  I'm  not  meself  to-day,  and  that's 


A  STRANGE  THING  267 

a  fact."  At  her  half-suspicious,  half-appealing 
look,  I  said  quickly: 

"I  don't  know  a  soul  about  here.  It's  all 
right." 

She  sighed.  "It  was  kind  of  you;  and  I  feel 
to  want  to  talk  sometimes.  Well,  after  he  was 
gone,  I  said  to  myself:  Til  take  a  holiday  and 
go  an'  see  my  daughter  married."  She  laughed 
-^-"1  never  had  no  pink  and  white  and  blue  little 
things  myself.  That  was  all  done  up  for  me  that 
night  I  had  the  moon  in  me  blood.  Ah  !  my  father 
was  a  proper  hard  man.  Twas  bad  enough  be- 
fore I  had  my  baby;  but  after,  when  I  couldn't 
get  the  father  to  many  me,  an'  he  cut  an'  run, 
proper  life  they  led  me,  him  and  stepmother. 
Cry !  Didn'  I  cry — I  was  a  soft-hearted  thing— 
never  went  to  sleep  with  me  eyes  dry — never. 
Tis  a  cruel  thing  to  make  a  young  girl  cry." 

I  said  quietly:  "Did  you  run  away,  then?" 

She  nodded.  "Bravest  thing  I  ever  did. 
Nearly  broke  my  'eart  to  leave  my  baby;  but 
'twas  that  or  drownin'  myself.  I  was  soft  then. 
I  went  off  with  a  young  fellow — bookmaker  that 
used  to  come  over  to  the  sports  meetin',  wild 
about  me — but  he  never  married  me" — again 
she  uttered  her  hard  laugh — "knew  a  thing  worth 
tu  o'  that."  Lifting  her  hand  towards  the  burn- 
ing furze,  she  added:  "I  used  to  come  up  here 


268  TATTERDEMALION 

an'  help  'em  light  that  when  I  was  a  little  girl." 
And  suddenly  she  began  to  cry.  It  was  not  so 
painful  and  alarming  as  her  first  distress,  for  it 
seemed  natural  now. 

At  the  side  of  the  cart-track  by  the  gate  was 
an  old  boot  thrown  away,  and  it  served  me  for 
something  to  keep  my  eyes  engaged.  The  dilap- 
idated black  object  among  the  stones  and  wild 
plants  on  that  day  of  strange  mixed  beauty  was 
as  incongruous  as  this  unhappy  woman  herself 
revisiting  her  youth.  And  there  shot  into  my 
mind  a  vision  of  this  spot  as  it  might  have  been 
that  summer  night  when  she  had  "the  moon  in 
her  blood" — queer  phrase — and  those  two  young 
creatures  in  the  tall  soft  fern,  in  the  warmth  and 
the  darkened  loneliness,  had  yielded  to  the  im- 
pulse in  their  blood.  A  brisk  fluttering  of  snow- 
flakes  began  falling  from  the  sky  still  blue,  drift- 
ing away  over  our  heads  towards  the  blood-red 
flames  and  smoke.  They  powdered  the  woman's 
hair  and  shoulders,  and  with  a  sob  and  a  laugh 
she  held  up  her  hand  and  began  catching  them 
as  a  child  might. 

"'Tis  a  funny  day  for  my  girl's  weddin',"  she 
said.  Then  with  a  sort  of  fierceness  added: 
"She'll  never  know  her  mother — she's  in  luck 
there,  tu!"  And,  grabbing  her  feathered  hat 


A  STRANGE  THING  269 

from  the  ground,  she  got  up.  "I  must  be  gettin' 
back  for  my  train,  else  I'll  be  late  for  an  appoint- 
ment." 

When  she  had  put  her  hat  on,  rubbed  her  face, 
dusted  and  smoothed  her  dress,  she  stood  looking 
at  the  burning  furze.  Restored  to  her  town 
plumage,  to  her  wonted  bravado,  she  was  more 
than  ever  like  that  old  discarded  boot,  incon- 
gruous. 

"I'm  a  fool  ever  to  have  come,"  she  said; 
"only  upset  me — and  you  don't  want  no  more 
upsettin'  than  you  get,  that's  certain.  Good- 
bye, and  thank  you  for  the  drink — it  lusened  my 
tongue  praaper,  didn't  it?"  She  gave  me  a  look 
— not  as  a  professional — but  a  human,  puzzled 
look.  "I  told  you  my  baby  was  a  laughin'  little 
thing.  I'm  glad  she's  still  like  that.  I'm  glad 
I've  seen  her."  Her  lips  quivered  for  a  second; 
then,  with  a  faked  jauntiness,  she  nodded.  "So 
long!"  and  passed  through  the  gate  down  into 
the  lane. 

I  sat  there  in  the  snow  and  sunlight  some  min- 
utes after  she  was  gone.  Then,  getting  up,  I 
went  and  stood  by  the  burning  furze.  The  blow- 
ing flames  and  the  blue  smoke  were  alive  and 
beautiful;  but  behind  them  they  were  leaving 
blackened  skeleton  twigs. 


270  TATTERDEMALION 

"Yes,"  I  thought,  "but  in  a  week  or  two  the 
little  green  grass-shoots  will  be  pushing  up  under- 
neath into  the  sun.  So  the  world  goes !  Out  of 
destruction !  It's  a  strange  thing ! " 

1916. 


V 
TWO  LOOKS 

The  old  Director  of  the  'Yew  Trees'  Cemetery 
walked  slowly  across  from  his  house,  to  see  that 
all  was  ready. 

He  had  seen  pass  into  the  square  of  earth  com- 
mitted to  his  charge  so  many  to  whom  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  nodding,  co  many  whose  faces 
even  he  had  not  known.  To  him  it  was  the 
everyday  event;  yet  this  funeral,  one  more  in  the 
countless  tale,  disturbed  him — a  sharp  reminder 
of  the  passage  of  time. 

For  twenty  years  had  gone  by  since  the  death 
of  Septimus  Godwin,  the  cynical,  romantic  doctor 
who  had  been  his  greatest  friend;  by  whose  clever- 
ness all  had  sworn,  of  whose  powers  of  fascination 
all  had  gossiped!  And  now  they  were  burying 
his  son! 

He  had  not  seen  the  widow  since,  for  she  had 
left  the  town  at  once;  but  he  recollected  her  dis- 
tinctly, a  tall,  dark  woman  with  bright  brown 
eyes,  much  younger  than  her  husband,  and  only 
married  to  him  eighteen  months  before  he  died. 
He  remembered  her  slim  figure  standing  by  the 

271 


272  TATTERDEMALION 

grave,  at  that  long-past  funeral,  and  the  look  on 
her  face  which  had  puzzled  him  so  terribly — a 
look  of — a  most  peculiar  look ! 

He  thought  of  it  even  now,  walking  along  the 
narrow  path  towards  his  old  friend's  grave — the 
handsomest  in  the  cemetery,  commanding  from 
the  topmost  point  the  whitened  slope  and  river 
that  lay  beyond.  He  came  to  its  little  private 
garden.  Spring  flowers  were  blossoming;  the 
railings  had  been  freshly  painted;  and  by  the 
door  of  the  grave  wreaths  awaited  the  new  arrival. 
All  was  in  order. 

The  old  Director  opened  the  mausoleum  with 
his  key.  Below,  seen  through  a  thick  glass  floor, 
lay  the  shining  coffin  of  the  father;  beneath,  on 
the  lower  tier,  would  rest  the  coffin  of  the  son. 

A  gentle  voice,  close  behind  him,  said: 

"Can  you  tell  me,  sir,  what  they  are  doing  to 
my  old  doctor's  grave?" 

The  old  Director  turned,  and  saw  before  him  a 
lady  well  past  middle  age.  He  did  not  know  her 
face,  but  it  was  pleasant,  with  faded  rose-leaf 
cheeks,  and  silvered  hair  under  a  shady  hat. 

"Madam,  there  is  a  funeral  here  this  after- 


noon." 


"Ah!    Can  it  be  his  wife?" 

"  Madam,  his  son;  a  young  man  of  only  twenty.3 

"His  son !    At  what  time  did  you  say?" 


TWO  LOOKS  273 

"At  two'o'clock." 

"Thank  you;  you  are  very  kind." 

With  uplifted  hat,  he  watched  her  walk  away. 
It  worried  him  to  see  a  face  he  did  not  know. 

All  went  off  beautifully;  but,  dining  that  same 
evening  with  his  friend,  a  certain  doctor,  the  old 
Director  asked: 

"Did  you  see  a  lady  with  grey  hair  hovering 
about  this  afternoon?" 

The  doctor,  a  tall  man,  with  a  beard  still  yellow, 
drew  his  guest's  chair  nearer  to  the  fire. 

"I  did." 

"Did  you  remark  her  face?  A  very  odd  ex- 
pression— a  sort  of — what  shall  I  call  it? — Very 
odd  indeed !  Who  is  she  ?  I  saw  her  at  the  grave 
this  morning." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"Not  so  very  odd,  I  think." 

"Come!    What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

The  doctor  hesitated.  Then,  taking  the  de- 
canter, he  filled  his  old  friend's  glass,  and  an- 
swered: 

"Well,  sir,  you  were  Godwin's  greatest  chum 
— I  will  tell  you,  if  you  like,  the  story  of  his  death. 
You  were  away  at  the  time,  if  you  remember." 

"It  is  safe  with  me,"  said  the  old  Director. 

"Septimus  Godwin,"  began  the  doctor  slowly, 
"died  on  a  Thursday  about  three  o'clock,  and  I 


274  TATTERDEMALION 

was  only  called  in  to  see  him  at  two.  I  found  him 
far  gone,  but  conscious  now  and  then.  It  was  a 
case  of — but  you  know  the  details,  so  I  needn't 
go  into  that.  His  wife  was  in  the  room,  and  on 
the  bed  at  his  feet  lay  his  pet  dog — &  terrier;  you 
may  recollect,  perhaps,  he  had  a  special  breed. 
I  hadn't  been  there  ten  minutes,  when  a  maid 
came  in  and  whispered  something  to  her  mis- 
tress. Mrs.  Godwin  answered  angrily,  '  See  him  ? 
Go  down  and  say  she  ought  to  know  better  than 
to  come  here  at  such  a  time ! '  The  maid  went, 
but  soon  came  back.  Could  the  lady  see  Mrs. 
Godwin  for  just  a  moment?  Mrs.  Godwin  an- 
swered that  she  could  not  leave  her  husband. 
The  maid  looked  frightened,  and  went  away 
again.  She  came  back  for  the  third  time.  The 
lady  had  said  she  must  see  Dr.  Godwin;  it  was  a 
matter  of  lif e  and  death !  '  Death — indeed ! '  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Godwin:  'Shameful !  Go  down  and 
tell  her,  if  she  doesn't  go  immediately,  I  will  send 
for  the  police!' 

"The  poor  maid  looked  at  me.  I  offered  to  go 
down  and  see  the  visitor  myself.  I  found  her  in 
the  dining  room,  and  knew  .her  at  once.  Never 
mind  her  name,  but  she  belongs  to  a  county 
family  not  a  hundred  miles  from  here.  A  beau- 
tiful woman  she  was  then;  but  her  face  that  day 
was  quite  distorted. 


TWO  LOOKS  275 

"'For  God's  sake,  Doctor/  she  said,  'is  there 
any  hope?' 

"  I  was  obliged  to  tell  her  there  was  none. 

"'Then  I  must  see  him,'  she  said. 

"  I  begged  her  to  consider  what  she  was  asking. 
But  she  held  me  out  a  signet  ring.  Just  like 
Godwin — wasn't  it — that  sort  of  Byronism,  eh? 

'"He  sent  me  this,'  she  said,  'an  hour  ago.  It 
was  agreed  between  us  that  if  ever  he  sent  that, 
I  must  come:  If  it  were  only  myself  I  could  bear 
it — a  woman  can  bear  anything;  but  he'll  die 
thinking  I  wouldn't  come,  thinking  I  didn't  care 
— and  I  would  give  my  life  for  him  this  minute !' 

"  Now,  a  dying  man's  request  is  sacred.  I  told 
her  she  should  see  him.  I  made  her  follow  me 
upstairs,  and  wait  outside  his  room.  I  promised 
to  let  her  know  if  he  recovered  consciousness.  I 
have  never  been  thanked  like  that,  before  or 
since. 

"I  went  back  into  the  bedroom.  He  was  still 
unconscious,  and  the  terrier  whining.  In  the 
next  room  a  child  was  crying — the  very  same  young 
man  we  buried  to-day.  Mrs.  Godwin  was  still 
standing  by  the  bed. 

"'Have  you  sent  her  away?' 

"I  had  to  say  that  Godwin  really  wished  to 
see  her.  At  that  she  broke  out: 

"'I  won't  have  her  here — the  wretch!' 


276  TATTERDEMALION 

"I  begged  her  to  control  herself,  and  remember 
that  her  husband  was  a  dying  man. 

"'But  I'm  his  wife/  she  said,  and  flew  out  of 
the  room." 

The  doctor  paused,  staring  at  the  fire.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  went  on:  "I'd  have 
stopped  her  fury  if  I  could !  A  dying  man  is  not 
the  same  as  the  live  animal,  that  he  must  needs 
be  wrangled  over!  And  suffering's  sacred,  even 
to  us  doctors.  I  could  hear  their  voices  outside. 
Heaven  knows  what  they  said  to  each  other. 
And  there  lay  Godwin  with  his  white  face  and  his 
black  hair — deathly  still — fine-looking  fellow  he 
always  was !  Then  I  saw  that  he  was  coming  to ! 
The  women  had  begun  again  outside — first,  the 
wife,  sharp  and  scornful;  then  the  other,  hushed 
and  slow.  I  saw  Godwin  lift  his  finger  and  point 
it  at  the  door.  I  went  out,  and  said  to  the  woman, 
'Dr.  Godwin  wishes  to  see  you;  please  control 
yourself.' 

"We  went  back  into  the  room.  The  wife  fol- 
lowed. But  Godwin  had  lost  consciousness  again. 
They  sat  down,  those  two,  and  hid  their  faces.  I 
can  see  them  now,  one  on.  each  side  of  the  bed, 
their  eyes  covered  with  their  hands,  each  with 
her  claim  on  him,  all  murdered  by  the  other's 
presence;  each  with  her  torn  love.  H'm !  What 
they  must  have  suffered,  then !  And  all  the  time 


TWO  LOOKS  277 

the  child  crying — the  child  of  one  of  them,  that 
might  have  been  the  other's!" 

The  doctor  was  silent,  and  the  old  Director 
turned  towards  him  his  white-bearded,  ruddy 
face,  with  a  look  as  if  he  were  groping'in  the  dark. 

"Just  then,  I  remember/'  the  doctor  went  on 
suddenly,  "the  bells  of  St.  Jude's  close  by  began 
to  peal  out  for  the  finish  of  a  wedding.  That 
brought  Godwin  back  to  life.  He  just  looked 
from  one  woman  to  the  other  with  a  queer,  miser- 
able sort  of  smile,  enough  to  make  your  heart 
break.  And  they  both  looked  at  him.  The  face 
of  the  wife — poor  thing! — was  as  bitter  hard  as 
a  cut  stone,  but  she  sat  there,  without  ever  stir- 
ring a  finger.  As  for  the  other  woman — I  couldn't 
look  at  her.  He  beckoned  to  me;  but  I  couldn't 
catch  his  words,  the  bells  drowned  them.  A 
minute  later  he  was  dead. 

"  Life's  a  funny  thing !  You  wake  in  the  morn- 
ing with  your  foot  firm  on  the  ladder — One  touch, 
and  down  you  go !  You  snuff  out  like  a  candle. 
And  it's  lucky  when  your  flame  goes  out,  if  only 
one  woman's  flame  goes  out  too. 

"Neither  of  those  women  cried.  The  wife 
stayed  there  by  the  bed.  I  got  the  other  one 
away  to  her  carriage,  down  the  street. — And  so 
she  was  there  to-day !  That  explains,  I  think,  the 
look  you  saw." 


278  TATTERDEMALION 

The  doctor  ceased,  and  in  the  silence  the  old 
Director  nodded.  Yes !  That  explained  the  look 
he  had  seen  on  the  face  of  that  unknown  woman, 
the  deep,  unseizable,  weird  look.  That  explained 
the  look  he  had  seen  on  the  wife's  face  at  the 
funeral  twenty  years  ago ! 

And  peering  wistfully,  he  said: 

"They  looked — they  looked — almost  trium- 
phant!" 

Then,  slowly,  he  rubbed  his  hands  over  his 
knees,  with  the  secret  craving  of  the  old  for 
warmth. 

1914. 


VI 
FAIRYLAND 

It  was  about  three  o'clock,  this  November 
afternoon,  when  I  rode  down  into  "Fairyland," 
as  it  is  called  about  here.  The  birch-trees  there 
are  more  beautiful  than  any  in  the  world;  and 
when  the  clouds  are  streaming  over  in  rain-grey, 
and  the  sky  soaring  above  in  higher  blue,  just- 
seen,  those  gold  and  silver  creatures  have  such 
magical  loveliness  as  makes  the  hearts  of  mortals 
ache.  The  fairies,  who  have  been  driven  off  the 
moor,  alone  watch  them  with  equanimity,  if  they 
be  not  indeed  the  birch-trees  themselves — es- 
pecially those  little  very  golden  ones  which  have 
strayed  out  into  the  heather,  on  the  far  side  of 
the  glen.  "Revenge!"  the  fairies  cried  when  a 
century  ago  those,  whom  they  do  not  exist  just 
to  amuse,  made  the  new  road  over  the  moor, 
cutting  right  through  the  home  of  twilight,  that 
wood  above  the  "Falls,"  where  till  then  they  had 
always  enjoyed  inviolable  enchantment.  They 
trooped  forthwith  in  their  multitudinous  secrecy 
down  into  the  glen,  to  swarm  about  the  old  road. 
In  half  a  century  or  so  they  had  it  almost  aban- 
doned, save  for  occasional  horsemen  and  harm- 

279 


280  TATTERDEMALION 

less  persons  seeking  beauty,  for  whom  the  fairies 
have  never  had  much  feeling  of  aversion.  And 
now,  after  a  hundred  years,  it  is  all  theirs;  the 
ground  so  golden  with  leaves  and  bracken  that 
the  old  track  is  nothing  but  a  vague  hardness 
beneath  a  horse's  feet,  nothing  but  a  runnel  for 
the  rains  to  gather  in.  There  is  everywhere  that 
glen  scent  of  mouldering  leaves,  so  sweet  when 
the  wind  comes  down  and  stirs  it,  and  the  sun 
frees  and  livens  it.  Not  very  many  birds,  per- 
haps because  hawks  are  fond  of  hovering  here. 
This  was  once  the  only  road  up  to  the  village,  the 
only  communication  with  all  that  lies  to  the  south 
and  east!  Now  the  fairies  have  got  it  indeed, 
they  have  witched  to  skeletons  all  the  little  bridges 
across  the  glen  stream;  they  have  mossed  and 
thinned  the  gates  to  wraiths.  With  their  dapple- 
gold  revelry  in  sunlight,  and  their  dance  of  pied 
beauty  under  the  moon,  they  have  made  all  their 
own. 

I  have  ridden  many  times  down  into  this  glen; 
and  slowly  up  among  the  beeches  and  oaks  into 
the  lanes  again,  hoping  and  believing  that,  some 
day,  I  should  see  a  fairy  take  shape  to  my  thick 
mortal  vision;  and  to-day,  at  last,  I  have  seen. 

I  heard  it  first  about  half-way  up  the  wood,  a 
silvery  voice  piping  out  very  true  what  seemed 
like  mortal  words,  not  quite  to  be  caught.  Re- 


FAIRYLAND  281 

solved  not  to  miss  it  this  time,  I  got  off  quietly 
and  tied  my  mare  to  a  tree.  Then,  tiptoeing  in 
the  damp  leaves  which  did  not  rustle,  I  stole  up 
till  I  caught  sight  of  it,  from  behind  an  oak. 

It  was  sitting  in  yellow  bracken  as  high  as  its 
head,  under  a  birch-tree  that  had  a  few  branches 
still  gold-feathered.  It  seemed  to  be  clothed  in 
blue,  and  to  be  swaying  as  it  sang.  There  was 
something  in  its  arms,  as  it  might  be  a  creature 
being  nursed.  Cautiously  I  slipped  from  that 
tree  to  the  next,  till  I  could  see  its  face,  just  like 
a  child's,  fascinating,  very,  very  delicate,  the  little 
open  mouth  poised  and  shaped  ever  so  neatly  to 
the  words  it  was  singing;  the  eyes  wide  apart  and 
ever  so  wide  open,  fixed  on  nothing  mortal.  The 
song,  and  the  little  body,  and  the  spirit  in  the 
eyes,  all  seemed  to  sway — sway  together,  like  a 
soft  wind  that  goes  sough-sough,  swinging,  in  the 
tops  of  the  ferns.  And  now  it  stretched  out  one 
arm,  and  now  the  other,  beckoning  in  to  it  those 
to  which  it  was  singing;  so  that  one  seemed  to 
feel  the  invisible  ones  stealing  up  closer  and 
closer. 

These  were  the  words  which  came  so  silvery 
and  slow  through  that  little  mouth:  "Chil-dren, 
chil-dren !  Hussh ! ' ' 

It  seemed  as  if  the  very  rabbits  must  come  and 
sit-up  there,  the  jays  and  pigeons  settle  above; 


282  TATTERDEMALION 

everything  in  all  the  wood  gather.  Even  one's 
own  heart  seemed  to  be  drawn  in  by  those  beckon- 
ing arms,  and  the  slow  enchantment  of  that 
tinkling  voice,  and  the  look  in  those  eyes,  which, 
lost  in  the  unknown,  were  seeing  no  mortal  glen, 
but  only  that  mazed  wood,  where  friendly  wild 
things  come,  who  have  no  sound  to  their  padding, 
no  whirr  to  the  movement  of  their  wings;  whose 
gay  whisperings  have  no  noise,  whose  eager  shapes 
no  colour — the  fairy  dream-wood  of  the  un- 
imaginable. 

"Chil-dren,  chil-dren!    Hus-s-h!" 

For  just  a  momerit  I  could  see  that  spirit  com- 
pany, ghosts  of  the  ferns  and  leaves,  of  butter- 
flies and  bees  and  birds,  and  four-footed  things 
innumerable,  ghosts  of  the  wind,  the  sun-beams, 
and  the  rain-drops,  and  tiny  flickering  ghosts  of 
moon-rays.  For  just  a  moment  I  saw  what  the 
fairy's  eyes  were  seeing,  without  knowing  what 
they  saw. 

And  then  my  mare  trod  on  a  dead  branch, 
and  aD  vanished.  My  fairy  wras  gone;  and  there 
was  only  little  "Connemara,"  as  we  called  her, 
nursing  her  doll,  and  smiling  up  at  me  from  the 
fem,  where  she  had  come  to  practise  her  new 
school-song. 

1911. 


vn 

THE  NIGHTMARE  CHILD 

I  set  down  here  not  precisely  the  words  of  my 
friend,  the  country  doctor,  but  the  spirit  of  them : 

"You  know  there  are  certain  creatures  in  this 
world  whom  one  simply  dare  not  take  notice  of, 
however  sorry  one  may  be  for  them.  That  has 
often  been  borne  in  on  me.  I  realised  it,  I  think, 
before  I  met  that  little  girl.  I  used  to  attend  her 
mother  for  varicose  veins — one  of  those  women 
who  really  ought  not  to  have  children,  since  they 
haven't  the  very  least  notion  of  how  to  bring 
them  up.  The  wife  of  a  Sussex  agricultural 
labourer  called  Alliner,  she  was  a  stout  person, 
with  most  peculiar  prominent  epileptic  eyes,  such 
eyes  as  one  usually  associates  with  men  of  letters 
or  criminals.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  in  her. 
She  was  just  a  lazy,  slatternly,  easy-going  body, 
rather  given  to  drink.  Her  husband  was  a  thin, 
dirty,  light-hearted  fellow,  who  did  his  work  and 
offended  nobody.  Her  eldest  daughter,  a  pretty 
and  capable  girl,  was  wild,  got  into  various  kinds 
of  trouble,  and  had  to  migrate,  leaving  two  il- 
legitimate children  behind  her  with  their  grand- 

283 


284  TATTERDEMALION 

parents.  The  younger  girl,  the  child  of  this  story, 
who  was  called  Emmeline,  of  all  names — pro- 
nounced Em'leen,  of  course — was  just  fifteen  at 
the  time  of  my  visits  to  her  mother.  She  had 
eyes  like  a  hare's,  a  mouth  which  readily  fell  open, 
and  brown  locks  caught  back  from  her  scared 
and  knobby  forehead.  She  was  thin,  and  walked 
with  her  head  poked  a  little  forward,  and  she  so 
manoeuvred  her  legs  and  long  feet,  of  which  one 
turned  in  rather  and  seemed  trying  to  get  in  front 
of  the  other,  that  there  was  something  clod- 
hopperish  in  her  gait.  Once  in  a  way  you  would 
see  her  in  curl-papers,  and  then  indeed  she  was 
plain,  poor  child !  She  seemed  to  have  grown  up 
without  ever  having  had  the  least  attention  paid 
to  her.  I  don't  think  she  was  ill-treated — she 
was  simply  not  treated  at  all.  At  school  they 
had  been  kind  enough,  but  had  regarded  her  as 
almost  deficient.  Seeing  that  her  father  was  paid 
about  fifteen  shillings  a  week,  that  her  mother  had 
no  conception  of  housekeeping,  and  that  there 
wrere  two  babies  to  be  fed,  they  were,  of  course, 
villainously  poor,  and  Em'leen  was  always  drag- 
gle-tailed and  badly  shod.  One  side  of  her  too- 
short  dress  seemed  ever  to  hang  lower  than  the 
other,  her  stockings  always  had  one  hole  at  least, 
and  her  hat — such  queer  hats — would  seem  about 
to  fly  away.  I  have  known  her  type  in  the  upper 


THE  NIGHTMARE  CHILD         285 

classes  pass  muster  as  "eccentric"  or  "full  of 
character."  And  even  in  Em'leen  there  was  a 
sort  of  smothered  natural  comeliness,  trying  pa- 
thetically to  push  through,  and  never  getting  a 
chance.  She  always  had  a  lost-dog  air,  and  when 
her  big  hare's  eyes  clung  on  your  face,  it  seemed 
as  if  she  only  wanted  a  sign  to  make  her  come 
trailing  at  your  heels,  looking  up  for  a  pat  or  a 
bit  of  biscuit. 

"She  went  to  work,  of  course,  the  moment  she 
left  school.  Her  first  place  was  in  a  small  farm 
where  they  took  lodgers,  and  her  duties  were  to 
do  everything,  without,  of  course,  knowing  how- 
to  do  anything.  She  had  to  leave  because  she 
used  to  take  soap  and  hairpins,  and  food  that 
was  left  over,  and  was  once  seen  licking  a  dish. 
It  was  just  about  then  that  I  attended  her  mother 
for  those  veins  in  her  unwieldy  legs,  and  the 
child  was  at  home,  waiting  to  secure  some  other 
fate.  It  was  impossible  not  to  look  at  that 
little  creature  kindly,  and  to  speak  to  her  now 
and  then;  she  would  not  exactly  light  up,  because 
her  face  was  not  made  that  way,  but  she  would 
hang  towards  you  as  if  you  were  a  magnet,  and 
you  had  at  once  the  uncomfortable  sensation 
that  you  might  find  her  clinging,  impossible  to 
shake  off.  If  one  passed  her  in  the  village,  too, 
or  coming  down  from  her  blackberrying  in  the 


286  TATTERDEMALION 

thickets  on  the  Downs — their  cottage  lay  just 
below  the  South  Downs — one  knew  that  she 
would  be  lingering  along,  looking  back  till  you 
were  out  of  sight.  Somehow  one  hardly  thought 
of  her  as  a  girl  at  all,  she  seemed  so  far  from  all 
human  hearts,  so  wandering  in  a  queer  lost  world 
of  her  own,  and  to  imagine  what  she  could  be 
thinking  was  as  impossible  as  it  is  with  animals. 
Once  I  passed  her  and  her  mother  dawdling 
slowly  in  a  lane,  then  heard  the  dot-and-go-one 
footsteps  pattering  after  me,  and  the  childish 
voice,  rather  soft  and  timid,  say  behind  my 
shoulder:  "Would  you  please  buy  some  black- 
berries, sir?"  She  was  almost  pretty  at  that 
moment,  flushed  and  breathless  at  having  actually 
spoken  to  me,  but  her  eyes  hanging  on  my  face 
brought  a  sort  of  nightmare  feeling  at  once  of 
being  unable  to  get  rid  of  her. 

"Isn't  it  a  cruel  thing  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it,  that  there  should  be  born  into  the  world 
poor  creatures — children,  dogs,  cats,  horses — 
who  want  badly  to  love  and  be  loved,  and  yet 
whom  no  one  can  quite  put  up  with,  much  less 
feel  affection  for ! 

"Well,  what  happened  to  her  is  what  will 
always  happen  to  such  as  those,  one  way  or 
another,  in  a  world  where  the  callous  abound; 
for,  however  unlovable  a  woman  or  girl,  she  has 


287 

her  use  to  a  man,  just  as  a  dog  or  a  horse  has  to 
a  master  who  cares  nothing  for  it. 

"Soon  after  I  bought  those  blackberries  I  went 
out  to  France  on  military  duty.  I  got  my  leave 
a  year  later,  and  went  home.  It  was  late  Sep- 
tember, very  lovely  weather,  and  I  took  a  real 
holiday  walking  or  lying  about  up  on  the  Downs, 
and  only  coming  down  at  sunset.  On  one  of 
those  days  when  you  really  enter  heaven,  so  pure 
are  the  lines  of  the  hills,  so  cool  the  blue,  the 
green,  the  chalk-white  colouring  under  the  smile 
of  the  afternoon  sun — I  was  returning  down  that 
same  lane,  when  I  came  on  Em'leen  sitting  in  a 
gap  of  the  bank,  with  her  dishevelled  hat  beside 
her,  and  her  chin  sunk  on  her  hands.  My  ap- 
pearance seemed  to  drag  her  out  of  a  heavy  dream 
—her  eyes  awoke,  became  startled,  rolled  fur- 
tively; she  scrambled  up,  dropped  her  little,  old 
school  curtsey,  then  all  confused,  faced  the  bank 
as  if  she  were  going  to  climb  it.  She  was  taller, 
her  dress  longer,  her  hair  gathered  up,  and  it 
was  very  clear  what  was  soon  going  to  happen 
to  her.  I  walked  on  in  a  rage.  At  her  age — 
barely  sixteen  even  yet !  I  am  a  doctor,  and  ac- 
customed to  most  things,  but  this  particular  crime 
against  children  of  that  helpless  sort  does  make 
my  blood  boil.  Nothing,  not  even  passion  to 
excuse  it — who  could  feel  passion  for  that  poor 


288  TATTERDEMALION 

child  ? — nothing  but  the  cold,  clumsy  lust  of  some 
young  ruffian.  Yes,  I  walked  on  in  a  rage,  and 
went  straight  to  her  mother's  cottage.  That 
wretched  woman  was  incapable  of  moral  indigna- 
tion, or  else  the  adventures  of  her  elder  daughter 
had  exhausted  her  powers  of  expression.  'Yes/ 
she  admitted,  'Em'leen  had  got  herself  into 
trouble  too,  but  she  would  not  tell,  she  wouldn't 
say  nothin'  against  nobody.  It  was  a  bad  busi- 
ness, surely,  an'  now  there  would  be  three  o' 
them,  an'  Alliner  was  properly  upset,  that  he 
was ! '  That  was  all  there  was  to  be  had  out  of 
her.  One  felt  that  she  knew  or  suspected  more, 
but  her  fingers  had  been  so  burned  over  the  elder 
girl  that  anything  to  her  was  better  than  a  fuss. 

"I  saw  Alliner;  he  was  a  decent  fellow,  though 
dirty,  distressed  in  his  simple,  shallow-pated  way, 
and  more  obviously  ignorant  than  his  wife.  I 
spoke  to  the  schoolmistress,  a  shrewd  and  kindly 
married  woman. 

"Poor  Emmeline!  Yes,  she  had  noticed.  It 
was  very  sad  and  wicked !  She  hinted,  but  would 
not  do  more  than  hint,  at  the  son  of  the  miller, 
but  he  was  back  again,  fighting  in  France  now, 
and,  after  all,  her  evidence  amounted  to  no  more 
than  his  reputation  with  girls.  Besides,  one  is 
very  careful  what  one  says  in  a  country  village. 
I,  however,  was  so  angry  that  I  should  not  have 


THE  NIGHTMARE  CHILD         289 

been  careful  if  I  could  have  got  hold  of  anything 
at  all  definite. 

"I  did  not  see  the  child  again  before  my  leave 
was  up.  The  very  next  thing  I  heard  of  her,  was 
in'  a  newspaper — Emmeline  Alliner,  sixteen,  had 
been  committed  for  trial  for  causing  the  death  of 
her  illegitimate  child  by  exposure.  I  was  on  the 
sick  list  in  January,  and  went  home  to  rest.  I 
had  not  been  there  two  days  before  I  received  a 
visit  from  a  solicitor  of  our  assize  town,  who  came 
to  ask  me  if  I  would  give  evidence  at  the  girl's 
trial  as  to  the  nature  of  her  home  surroundings. 
I  learned  from  him  the  details  of  the  lugubrious 
business.  It  seems  that  she  had  slipped  out  one 
bitter  afternoon  in  December,  barely  a  fortnight 
after  her  confinement,  carrying  her  baby.  There 
was  snow  on  the  ground,  and  it  was  freezing  hard, 
but  the  sun  was  bright,  and  it  was  that  perhaps 
which  tempted  her.  She  must  have  gone  up 
towards  the  Downs  by  the  lane  where  I  had  twice 
met  her;  gone  up,  and  stopped  at  the  very  gap  in 
the  bank  where  she  had  been  sitting  lost  in  that 
heavy  dream  when  I  saw  her  last.  She  appears 
to  have  subsided  there  in  the  snow,  for  there  she 
was  found  by  the  postman  just  as  it  was  getting 
dark,  leaning  over  her  knees  as  if  stupefied,  with 
her  chin  buried  in  her  hands — and  the  baby  stiff 
and  dead  in  the  snow  beside  her.  When  I  told 


290  TATTERDEMALION 

the  lawyer  how  I  had  seen  her  there  ten  weeks 
before,  and  of  the  curious  dazed  state  she  had 
been  in,  he  said  at  once:  'Ah!  the  exact  spot. 
That's  very  important;  it  looks  uncommonly  as 
if  it  were  there  that  she  came  by  her  misfortune. 
What  do  you  think?  It's  almost  evident  that 
she'd  lost  sense  of  her  surroundings,  baby  and  all. 
I  shall  ask  you  to  tell  us  about  that  at  the  trial. 
She's  a  most  peculiar  child;  I  can't  get  anything 
out  of  her.  I  keep  asking  her  for  the  name  of  the 
man,  or  some  indication  of  how  it  came  about, 
but  all  she  says  is:  "Nobody — nobody!"  An- 
other case  of  immaculate  conception !  Poor  little 
creature,  she's  very  pathetic,  and  that's  her  best 
chance.  Who  could  condemn  a  child  like  that?' 
"And  so  indeed  it  turned  out.  I  spared  no 
feelings  in  my  evidence.  The  mother  and  father 
were  in  court,  and  I  hope  Mrs.  AUiner  liked  my 
diagnosis  of  her  maternal  qualities.  My  descrip- 
tion of  how  Em'leen  was  sitting  when  I  met  her  in 
September  tallied  so  exactly  with  the  postman's 
account  of  how  he  met  her,  that  I  could  see  the 
jury  were  impressed.  And  then  there  was  the 
figure  of  the  child  herself,  lonely  there  in  the  dock. 
The  French  have  a  word,  Hebet&e.  Surely  there 
never  was  a  human  object  to  which  it  applied 
better.  She  stood  like  a  little  tired  pony,  whose 
head  hangs  down,  half-sleeping  after  exertion; 


THE  NIGHTMARE  CHILD         291 

and  those  hare  eyes  of  hers  were  glued  to  the 
judge's  face,  for  all  the  world  as  if  she  were  wor- 
shipping him.  It  must  have  made  him  extraor- 
dinarily uncomfortable.  He  summed  up  very 
humanely,  dwelling  on  the  necessity  of  finding 
intention  in  her  conduct  towards  the  baby;  and 
he  used  some  good  strong  language  against  the 
unknown  man.  The  jury  found  her  not  guilty, 
and  she  was  discharged.  The  schoolmistress  and 
I,  anticipating  this,  had  found  her  a  refuge  with 
some  Sisters  of  Mercy,  who  ran  a  sort  of  home  not 
far  away,  and  to  that  we  took  her,  without  a  'by 
your  leave '  to  the  mother. 

"When  I  came  home  the  following  summer,  I 
found  an  opportunity  of  going  to  look  her  up. 
She  was  amazingly  unproved  in  face  and  dress, 
but  she  had  attached  herself  to  one  of  the  Sisters 
— a  broad,  fine-looking  woman — to  such  a  pitch 
that  she  seemed  hardly  alive  when  out  of  her 
sight.  The  Sister  spoke  of  it  to  me  with  real 
concern. 

"'I  really  don't  know  what  to  do  with  her/  she 
said;  'she  seems  incapable  of  anything  unless  I 
tell  her;  she  only  feels  things  through  me.  It's 
really  quite  trying,  and  sometimes  very  funny, 
poor  little  soul!  but  it's  tragic  for  her.  If  I 
told  her  to  jump  out  of  her  bedroom  window, 
or  lie  down  in  that  pond  and  drown,  she'd  do  it 


292  TATTERDEMALION 

without  a  moment's  hesitation.  She  can't  go 
through  life  like  this;  she  must  learn  to  stand  on 
her  own  feet.  We  must  try  and  get  her  a  good 
place,  where  she  can  learn  what  responsibility 
means,  and  get  a  will  of  her  own/ 

"I  looked  at  the  Sister,  so  broad,  so  capable,  so 
handsome,  and  so  puzzled,  and  I  thought,  'Yes, 
I  know  exactly.  She's  on  your  nerves;  and  where 
in  the  world  will  you  find  a  place  for  her  where 
she  won't  become  a  sort  of  nightmare  to  some 
one,  with  her  devotion,  or  else  get  it  taken  ad- 
vantage of  again?'  And  I  urged  them  to  keep 
her  a  little  longer.  They  did;  for  when  I  went 
home  for  good,  six  months  later,  I  found  that  she 
had  only  just  gone  into  a  place  with  an  old  lady- 
patient  of  mine,  in  a  small  villa  on  the  outskirts 
of  our  village.  She  used  to  open  the  door  to 
me  when  I  called  there  on  my  rounds  once  a  week. 
She  retained  vestiges  of  the  neatness  which  had 
been  grafted  on  her  by  the  Sister,  but  her  frock 
was  already  beginning  to  sag  down  on  one  side, 
and  her  hair  to  look  ill-treated.  The  old  lady 
spoke  to  her  with  a  sort  of  indulgent  impatience, 
and  it  was  clear  that  the  girl's  devotion  was  not 
concentrated  upon  her.  I  caught  myself  wonder- 
ing wrhat  would  be  its  next  object,  never  able  to 
help  the  feeling  that  if  I  gave  a  sign  it  would  be 
myself.  You  may  be  sure  I  gave  no  sign.  What's 


THE  NIGHTMARE  CHILD         293 

the  good?  I  hold  the  belief  that  people  should 
not  force  themselves  to  human  contacts  or  rela- 
tionships which  they  cannot  naturally  and  with- 
out irritation  preserve.  I've  seen  these  heroic 
attempts  come  to  grief  so  often;  in  fact,  I  don't 
think  I've  ever  seen  one  succeed,  not  even  be- 
tween blood  relations.  In  the  long  run  they 
merely  pervert  and  spoil  the  fibre  of  the  attempter, 
without  really  benefiting  the  attemptee.  Behind 
healthy  relationships  between  human  beings,  or 
even  between  human  beings  and  animals,  there 
must  be  at  least  some  rudimentary  affinity. 
That's  the  tragedy  of  poor  little  souls  like  Em'leen. 
Where  on  earth  can  they  find  the  affinity  which 
makes  life  good?  The  very  fact  that  they  must 
worship  is  their  destruction.  It  was  a  soldier — 
or  so  they  said — who  had  brought  her  to  her  first 
grief;  I  had  seen  her  adoring  the  judge  at  the 
trial,  then  the  handsome  uniformed  Sister.  And 
I,  as  the  village  doctor,  was  a  sort  of  tin-pot 
deity  in  those  parts,  so  I  was  very  careful  to  keep 
my  manner  to  her  robust  and  almost  brusque. 

"And  then  one  day  I  passed  her  coming  from 
the  post  office;  she  was  looking  back,  her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  and  she  was  almost  pretty.  There 
by  the  inn  a  butcher's  cart  was  drawn  up.  The 
young  butcher,  new  to  our  village  (he  had  a  stiff 
knee,  and  had  been  discharged  from  the  Army), 


294  '  TATTERDEMALION 

was  taking  out  a  leg  of  mutton.  He  had  a  dare- 
devil face,  and  eyes  that  had  seen  much  death. 
He  had  evidently  been  chatting  with  her,  for  he 
was  still  smiling,  and  even  as  I  passed  him  he 
threw  her  a  jerk  of  the  head. 

"Two  Sundays  after  that  I  was  coming  down 
past  Wiley's  copse  at  dusk,  and  heard  a  man's 
coarse  laugh.  There,  through  a  tiny  gap  in  the 
nut-bushes,  I  saw  a  couple  seated.  He  had  his 
leg  stiffly  stretched  out,  and  his  arm  round  the 
girl,  who  was  leaning  towards  him;  her  lips  were 
parted,  and  those  hare's  eyes  of  hers  were  look- 
ing up  into  his  face.  Adoration ! 

"I  don't  know  what  it  was  my  duty  to  have 
done,  I  only  know  that  I  did  nothing,  but  slunk 
on  with  a  lump  in  my  throat. 

"Adoration!  There  it  was  again!  Hopeless! 
Incurable  devotions  to  those  who  cared  no  more 
for  her  than  for  a  slice  of  suet-pudding  to  be 
eaten  hot,  gulped  down,  forgotten,  or  loathed  in 
the  recollection.  And  there  they  are,  these  girls, 
one  to  almost  every  village  of  this  country — a 
nightmare  to  us  all.  The  look  on  her  face  was 
with  me  all  that  evening  and  in  my  dreams. 

"I  know  no  more,  for  two  days  later  I  was 
summoned  North  to  take  up  work  in  a  military 
hospital." 

1917. 


VIII 
BUTTERCUP-NIGHT 

Why  is  it  that  in  some  places  one  has  such  a 
feeling  of  life  being,  not  merely  a  long  picture- 
show  for  human  eyes,  but  a  single  breathing,  glow- 
ing, growing  thing,  of  which  we  are  no  more 
important  a  part  than  the  swallows  and  magpies, 
the  foals  and  sheep  in  the  meadows,  the  syca- 
mores and  ash-trees  and  flowers  in  the  fields,  the 
rocks  and  little  bright  streams,  or  even  than  the 
long  fleecy  clouds  and  their  soft-shouting  drivers, 
the  winds? 

True,  we  register  these  parts  of  being,  and  they 
— so  far  as  we  know — do  not  register  us;  yet  it  is 
impossible  to  feel,  in  such  places  as  I  speak  of, 
the  busy,  dry,  complacent  sense  of  being  all  that 
matters,  which  in  general  we  humans  have  so 
strongly. 

In  these  rare  spots,  which  are  always  in  the 
remote  country,  untouched  by  the  advantages 
of  civilisation,  one  is  conscious  of  an  enwrapping 
web  or  mist  of  spirit — is  it,  perhaps  the  glamour- 
ous and  wistful  wraith  of  all  the  vanished  shapes 
once  dwelling  there  in  such  close  comradeship? 

295 


296  TATTERDEMALION 

It  was  Sunday  of  an  early  June  when  I  first 
came  on  one  such,  far  down  in  the  West  country. 
I  had  walked  with  my  knapsack  twenty  miles; 
and,  there  being  no  room  at  the  tiny  inn  of  the 
very  little  village,  they  directed  me  to  a  wicket 
gate,  through  which,  by  a  path  leading  down  a 
field,  I  would  come  to  a  farm-house,  where  I 
might  find  lodging.  The  moment  I  got  into  that 
field  I  felt  within  me  a  peculiar  contentment,  and 
sat  down  on  a  rock  to  let  the  feeling  grow.  In 
an  old  holly-tree  rooted  to  the  bank  about  fifty 
yards  away,  two  magpies  evidently  had  a  nest, 
for  they  were  coming  and  going,  avoiding  my 
view  as  much  as  possible,  yet  with  a  certain 
stealthy  confidence  which  made  one  feel  that 
they  had  long  prescriptive  right  to  that  dwelling- 
place.  Around,  far  as  one  could  see,  was  hardly 
a  yard  of  level  ground;  all  hill  and  hollow,  long 
ago  reclaimed  from  the  moor;  and  against  the  dis- 
tant folds  of  the  hills  the  farm-house  and  its 
thatched  barns  were  just  visible,  embowered 
amongst  beeches  and  some  dark  trees,  with  a  soft 
bright  crown  of  sunlight  over  the  whole.  A 
gentle  wind  brought  a  faint  rustling  up  from 
those  beeches,  and  from  a  large  lime-tree  which 
stood  by  itself;  on  this  wind  some  little  snowy 
clouds,  very  high  and  fugitive  in  that  blue  heaven, 
were  always  moving  over.  But  I  was  most  struck 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT  297 

by  the  buttercups.  Never  was  field  so  lighted  up 
by  those  tiny  lamps,  those  little  bright  pieces  of 
flower  china  out  of  the  Great  Pottery.  They 
covered  the  whole  ground,  as  if  the  sunlight  had 
fallen  bodily  from  the  sky,  hi  millions  of  gold 
patines;  and  the  fields  below  as  well,  down  to 
what  was  evidently  a  stream,  were  just  as  thick 
with  the  extraordinary  warmth  and  glory  of  them. 
Leaving  the  rock  at  last,  I  went  towards  the 
house.  It  was  long  and  low,  and  rather  sad, 
standing  in  a  garden  all  mossy  grass  and  butter- 
cups, with  a  few  rhododendrons  and  flowery 
shrubs,  below  a  row  of  fine  old  Irish  yews.  On 
the  stone  verandah  a  grey  sheep-dog  and  a  very 
small  golden-haired  child  were  sitting  close  to- 
gether, absorbed  in  each  other.  A  woman  came 
in  answer  to  my  knock,  and  told  me,  in  a  pleasant 
soft,  slurring  voice,  that  I  might  stay  the  night; 
and  dropping  my  knapsack,  I  went  out  again. 
Through  an  old  gate  under  a  stone  arch  I  came  on 
the  farmyard,  quite  deserted  save  for  a  couple  of 
ducks  moving  slowly  down  a  gutter  in  the  sun- 
light; and  noticing  the  upper  half  of  a  stable-door 
open,  I  went  across,  in  search  of  something  liv- 
ing. There,  in  a  rough  loose-box,  on  thick  straw, 
lay  a  chestnut,  long-tailed  mare,  with  the  skin 
and  head  of  a  thoroughbred.  She  was  swathed 
in  blankets,  and  her  face,  all  cut  about  the  cheeks 


298  TATTERDEMALION 

and  over  the  eyes,  rested  on  an  ordinary  human's 
pillow,  held  by  a  bearded  man  in  shirt-sleeves; 
while,  leaning  against  the  white-washed  walls, 
sat  fully  a  dozen  other  men,  perfectly  silent,  very 
gravely  and  intently  gazing.  The  mare's  eyes 
were  half-closed,  and  what  could  be  seen  of  them 
was  dull  and  blueish,  as  though  she  had  been 
through  a  long  tune  of  pain.  Save  for  her  rapid 
breathing,  she  lay  quite  still,  but  her  neck  and  ears 
were  streaked  with  sweat,  and  every  now  and  then 
her  hind-legs  quivered.  Seeing  me  at  the  door, 
she  raised  her  head,  uttering  a  queer,  half-human 
noise;  but  the  bearded  man  at  once  put  his  hand 
on  her  forehead,  and  with  a  "Woa,  my  dear, 
woa,  my  pretty!"  pressed  it  down  again,  while 
with  the  other  hand  he  plumped  up  the  pillow  for 
her  cheek.  And,  as  the  mare  obediently  let  fall 
her  head,  one  of  the  men  said  in  a  low  voice: 
"I  never  see  anything  so  like  a  Christian!  "and 
the  others  echoed  him,  in  chorus,  "Like  a  Chris- 
tian— like  a  Christian!"  It  went  to  one's  heart 
to  watch  her,  and  I  moved  off  down  the  farm  lane 
into  an  old  orchard,  where  the  apple-trees  were 
still  in  bloom,  with  bees — very  small  ones — busy 
on  the  blossoms,  whose  petals  were  dropping  on 
to  the  dock  leaves  and  buttercups  in  the  long 
grass.  Climbing  over  the  bank  at  the  far  end, 
I  found  myself  in  a  meadow  the  like  of  which — 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT  299 

so  wild  and  yet  so  lush — I  think  I  have  never 
seen.  Along  one  hedge  of  its  meandering  length 
were  masses  of  pink  mayflower;  and  between  two 
little  running  streams  quantities  of  yellow  water 
iris — "daggers,"  as  they  call  them — were  growing; 
the  "print-frock"  orchis,  too,  was  all  over  the 
grass,  and  everywhere  the  buttercups.  Great 
stones  coated  with  yellowish  moss  were  strewn 
among  the  ash-trees  and  dark  hollies;  and  through 
a  grove  of  beeches  on  the  far  side,  such  as  Corot 
might  have  painted,  a  girl  was  running  with  a 
youth  after  her,  who  jumped  down  over  the  bank 
and  vanished.  Thrushes,  blackbirds,  yaffles, 
cuckoos,  and  one  other  very  monotonous  little 
bird  were  in  full  song;  and  this,  with  the  sound 
of  the  streams,  and  the  wind,  and  the  shapes  of 
the  rocks  and  trees,  the  colours  of  the  flowers,  and 
the  warmth  of  the  sun,  gave  one  a  feeling  of  being 
lost  in  a  very  wilderness  of  Nature.  Some  ponies 
came  slowly  from  the  far  end,  tangled,  gipsy- 
headed  little  creatures,  stared,  and  went  off  again 
at  speed.  It  was  just  one  of  those  places  where 
any  day  the  Spirit  of  all  Nature  might  start  up 
in  one  of  those  white  gaps  which  separate  the  trees 
and  rocks.  But  though  I  sat  a  long  time  waiting, 
hoping — Pan  did  not  come. 

They  were  all  gone  from  the  stable,  when  I  went 
back  to  the  farm,  except  the  bearded  nurse,  and 


300  TATTERDEMALION 

one  tall  fellow,  who  might  have  been  the  "  Dying 
Gaul/'  as  he  crouched  there  in  the  straw;  and  the 
mare  was  sleeping — her  head  between  her  nurse's 
knees. 

That  night  I  woke  at  two  o'clock,  to  find  it 
bright  as  day,  almost,  with  moonlight  coming  in 
through  the  flimsy  curtains.  And,  smitten  with 
the  feeling  which  comes  to  us  creatures  of  routine 
so  rarely — of  what  beauty  and  strangeness  we  let 
slip  by  without  ever  stretching  out  hand  to  grasp 
it — I  got  up,  dressed,  stole  downstairs,  and  out. 

Never  was  such  a  night  of  frozen  beauty,  never 
such  dream-tranquillity.  The  wind  had  dropped, 
and  the  silence  was  such  that  one  hardly  liked  to 
tread  even  on  the  grass.  From  the  lawn  and 
fields  there  seemed  to  be  a  mist  rising — in  truth, 
the  moonlight  caught  on  the  dewy  buttercups; 
and  across  this  ghostly  radiance  the  shadows  of 
the  yew-trees  fell  in  dense  black  bars.  Suddenly, 
I  bethought  me  of  the  mare.  How  was  she 
faring,  this  marvellous  night?  Very  softly  open- 
ing the  door  into  the  yard,  I  tiptoed  across.  A 
light  was  burning  in  her  box.  And  I  could  hear 
her  making  the  same  half-human  noise  she  had 
made  in  the  afternoon,  as  if  wondering  at  her 
feelings;  and  instantly  the  voice  of  the  bearded 
man  talking  to  her  as  one  might  talk  to  a  child: 
"Oover,  me  darlin';  yu've  a-been  long  enough  o' 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT  301 

that  side.  Wa-ay,  my  swate — yu  let  old  Jack 
turn  'u,  then!"  Then  came  a  scuffling  in  the 
straw,  a  thud,  again  that  half -human  sigh,  and 
his  voice:  "Putt  your  'ead  to  piller,  that's  my 
dandy  gel.  Old  Jack  wouldn'  'urt  'u;  no  more'n 
ef  'u  was  the  queen!"  Then  only  her  quick 
breathing  could  be  heard,  and  his  cough  and  mut- 
ter, as  he  settled  down  once  more  to  his  long  vigil. 
I  crept  very  softly  up  to  the  window,  but  she 
heard  me  at  once;  and  at  the  movement  of  her 
head  the  old  fellow  sat  up,  blinking  his  eyes  out 
of  the  bush  of  his  grizzled  hair  and  beard.  Open- 
ing the  door,  I  said: 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"Oo,  ay!    Come  in,  Zurr,  if  'u'm  a  mind  to." 

I  sat  down  beside  him  on  a  sack,  and  for  some 
time  we  did  not  speak,  taking  each  other  in.  One 
of  his  legs  was  lame,  so  that  he  had  to  keep  it 
stretched  out  all  the  time;  and  awfully  tired  he 
looked,  grey-tired. 

"You're  a  great  nurse!"  I  said  at  last.  "It 
must  be  hard  work,  watching  out  here  all  night." 

His  eyes  twinkled;  they  were  of  that  bright 
grey  kind  through  which  the  soul  looks  out. 

"Aw,  no!"  he  said.  "Ah  don't  grudge  it  vur 
a  dumb  animal.  Poor  things — they  can't  'elp 
theirzelves.  Many's  the  naight  ah've  zat  up 
with  'orses  and  beasts  tu.  'Tes  en  me — can't 


302  TATTERDEMALION 

bear  to  zee  dumb  creatures  zuffer!"  And,  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  the  mare's  ears:  "They  zay  'orses 
'aven't  no  souls.  'Tes  my  belief  they'm  gotten 
souls,  zame  as  us.  Many's  the  Christian  ah've 
seen  ain't  got  the  soul  of  an  'orse.  Zame  with  the 
beasts — an'  the  sheep;  'tes  only  they  can't  spake 
their  minds." 

"And  where,"  I  said,  "do  you  think  they  go  to 
when  they  die  ?  "  He  looked  at  me  a  little  queerly, 
fancying,  perhaps,  that  I  was  leading  him  into 
some  trap;  making  sure,  too,  that  I  was  a  real 
stranger,  without  power  over  him,  body  or  soul 
— for  humble  folk  in  the  country  must  be  careful; 
then,  reassured,  and  nodding  in  his  bushy  beard, 
he  answered  knowingly: 
"Ah  don't  think  they  goes  zo  very  far!" 
"  Why  ?  Do  you  ever  see  their  spirits  ? ' ' 
"Naw,  naw;  I  never  zeen  none;  but,  for  all  they 
zay,  ah  don't  think  none  of  us  goes  such  a  brave 
way  off.  There's  room  for  all,  dead  or  alive. 
An'  there's  Christians  ah've  zeen — well,  ef  they'm 
not  dead  for  gude,  then  neither  aren't  dumb 
animals,  for  sure." 

"And  rabbits,  squirrels,  birds,  even  insects? 
How  about  them?" 

He  was  silent,  as  if  I  had  carried  him  a  little 
beyond  the  confines  of  his  philosophy,  then  shook 
his  head: 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT  303 

"'Tes  all  a  bit  dimsy-like.  But  yu  watch 
dumb  animals,  Zurr,  even  the  laste  littlest  one, 
and  yu'll  zee  they  knows  a  lot  more'n  what  us 
thenks;  an'  they  du's  things,  tu,  that  putts  shame 
on  a  man's  often  as  not.  They've  a  got  that  in 
'em  as  passes  show."  And  not  noticing  my  stare 
at  that  unconscious  plagiarism,  he  added:  "Ah'd 
zuuner  zet  up  of  a  naight  with  an  'orse  than  with 
an  'uman;  they've  more  zense,  and  patience." 
And,  stroking  the  mare's  forehead,  he  added: 
"Now,  my  dear,  time  for  yu  t'  'ave  yure  bottle." 

I  waited  to  see  her  take  her  draught,  and  lay 
her  head  down  once  more  on  the  pillow.  Then, 
hoping  he  would  get  a  sleep,  I  rose  to  go. 

"Aw,  'tes  nothin'  much,"  he  said,  "this  time  o' 
year;  not  like  in  winter.  'Twill  come  day  before 
yu  know,  these  buttercup-nights";  and  twinkling 
up  at  me  out  of  his  kindly  bearded  face,  he  set- 
tled himself  again  into  the  straw.  I  stole  a  look 
back  at  his  rough  figure  propped  against  the 
sack,  with  the  mare's  head  down  beside  his  knee, 
at  her  swathed  chestnut  body,  and  the  gold  of 
the  straw,  the  white  walls,  and  dusky  nooks  and 
shadows  of  that  old  stable,  illumined  by  the 
"dimsy"  light  of  the  old  lantern.  And  with  the 
sense  of  having  seen  something  holy,  I  crept 
away  up  into  the  field  where  I  had  lingered  the 
day  before,  and  sat  down  on  the  same  half-way 


304  TATTERDEMALION 

rock.  Close  on  dawn  it  was,  the  moon  still  sail- 
ing wide  over  the  moor,  and  the  flowers  of  this 
"buttercup-night"  fast  closed,  not  taken  in  at 
all  by  her  cold  glory ! 

Most  silent  hour  of  all  the  twenty-four — when 
the  soul  slips  half  out  of  sheath,  and  hovers  in  the 
cool;  when  the  spirit  is  most  in  tune  with  what, 
soon  or  late,  happens  to  all  spirits;  hour  when  a 
man  cares  least  whether  or  no  he  be  alive,  as  we 
understand  the  word.  .  .  .  "None  of  us  goes 
such  a  brave  way  off — there's  room  for  all,  dead 
or  alive."  Though  it  was  almost  unbearably 
colourless,  and  quiet,  there  was  warmth  in  think- 
ing of  those  words  of  his;  in  the  thought,  too, 
of  the  millions  of  living  things  snugly  asleep  all 
round;  warmth  in  realising  that  unanimity  of 
sleep.  Insects  and  flowers,  birds,  men,  beasts, 
the  very  leaves  on  the  trees — away  in  slumber- 
land.  Waiting  for  the  first  bird  to  chirrup,  one 
had,  perhaps,  even  a  stronger  feeling  than  in 
daytime  of  the  unity  and  communion  of  all  life, 
of  the  subtle  brotherhood  of  living  things  that 
fall  all  together  into  oblivion,  and,  all  together, 
wake. 

When  dawn  comes,  while  moonlight  is  still 
powdering  the  world's  face,  quite  a  long  time 
passes  before  one  realises  how  the  quality  of  the 
light  has  changed;  and  so,  it  was  day  before  I 


BUTTERCUP-NIGHT  305 

knew  it.  Then  the  sun  came  up  above  the  hills; 
dew  began  to  sparkle,  and  colour  to  stain  the  sky. 
That  first  praise  of  the  sun  from  every  bird  and 
leaf  and  blade  of  grass,  the  tremulous  flush  and 
chime  of  dawn!  One  has  strayed  far  from  the 
heart  of  things  that  it  should  come  as  something 
strange  and  wonderful!  Indeed,  I  noticed  that 
the  beasts  and  birds  gazed  at  me  as  if  I  simply 
could  not  be  there  at  this  hour  which  so  belonged 
to  them.  And  to  me,  too,  they  seemed  strange 
and  new — with  that  in  them  "which  passeth 
show,"  and  as  of  a  world  where  man  did  not 
exist,  or  existed  only  as  just  another  sort  of  beast 
or  bird. 

But  just  then  began  the  crowning  glory  of  that 
dawn — the  opening  and  lighting  of  the  butter- 
cups. Not  one  did  I  actually  see  unclose,  yet,  of 
a  sudden,  they  were  awake,  and  the  fields  once 
more  a  blaze  of  gold. 


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